Monday, 11 May 2015


Anger flows; eyes flare at those
Whose words are swords in trembling hands
In morbid might spite grips and grows
From poorly composed blind demands.
My best intentions ash to dust
Dis-ease consolidates to Lead
A warm thump of power lust
On drum skins stretched across my head
A single droplet from a leaf
It’s presence ripples pure
Sweet clarity is my relief
Compassion is my cure
The frailty of others shown
Is Gold that sets me free
That's Magick from the Wise Oak grown
My Friend – that’s Alchemy.

Sam Edge