Poem 2. Untitled.

The rain brutalized the pasture,
drops razor sharp on a verdant canvas.
The temperate wilderness was empty
except for a handful of white elephants.
They grazed the field of languid wraiths
and were pretty much invisible to
the shepherds who choked on
the meat of dreams. The pachyderms
would turn grey at times when
the Muse fed them with stray thoughts
and vegetation from the jungle
of Misuse.

--- Naomi Cammayo 

Restart: Poem 1. Untitled.

The poem lay dying in the distance;
scarred cliches defy definition.
Somewhere, an owl un-sees the Shadow,
a nocturnal rhyme faintly re-sounds,
as the fading light of a crestfallen bard
casts false hopes on two lovers
who brutalized the Tree of Lies.
A satyr pours the sourest of wines
over a string of neglected verse,
nymphs wail nearby and try to salvage
a sweet syllable and break the hand
of the Maiden weaving matrixes
of lost tales that clutter the clearing
                                                   in secret.

--- Naomi Cammayo