Come in, under the shadow of this red rock
and I will show you a heap of broken images.
Hurry up please, its time. At the violet hour,
when exploring hands encounter no defence,
red sullen faces sneer and snarl. He passed
the stages of his age and youth after the agony
in stony places; amongst the rock one cannot
stop or think. The awful daring of a moments
surrender to controlling hands picked his bones
in whispers in our empty rooms. Here
one can neither stand nor lie nor sit.
Under the brown fog of a winter moon:
stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays,
silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends,
the rattle of bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear
makes a welcome of indifference.
This poem is a bit of a collage. None of the lines are my own; instead, the poem consists of rearranged lines from T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land. Thanks for reading! ☺️