ISLAND OF DEATH

On the island of death
Only lonesome losers go,
Rocks cover the dead red sand
Where nothing worthwhile grows.

Weeds and poison ivy
Proliferate round a foul lagoon,
Ready to rain down death
Upon any beast that consumes.

Only stunted creatures
Live on this foul abode,
Where nothing decent
                            lives for long
And only twisted weeds can grow.

The birds twill a song of death
A hopeless, loathsome dirge,
And stay above the burning sands
Where only evil things emerge.

Creatures from some nightmare world
Live just below the red sands,
Horrors from some fever dream
Fit only for this hope-shunned land.

On the island of death
No promises are ever kept,
And any thought of rescue
Is soon bereft.

THE END
© Copyright 2021 Philip Roberts
Melbourne, Victoria, Australia