The Graveyard of Working men

Through the graveyard of working men,

Their bones clicking to the sound of their pens,

And through the fragile, downtrodden land,

‘The Valley of Fragmented Odds-and-Ends’

Their timeless prophet early ascends.

Over and over, and over again. 

Oh, they’ll blame the wrath of rhythm

Before they’ll churn out the honest man.

Through archangel diatribes, their berated souls divide

The rumoured Motherland of the God-given plan.

The coarse grit and brine, of an ocean

Once divine, cradles the moon with a gentle motion

They’re tired this evening, tired and sleeping.

For the tapestried hymnals now cry out like weeping.

Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate.

Go quietly now- he prowls overhead

For it is too late, and the dreamer is dead.

Written by Emmanuelle Kate.

‘Emmanuelle Kate is an eighteen-year-old writer who believes there is nothing more lovely than the act of falling down dream-like literary rabbit holes of fiction and prose.’