“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Wednesday, January 13, 2016
X Marks the Classism
The night people were quiet and blue.
The day humans fluttered, clashed and clanged.
They never crossed paths.
The winter ones were strong and leathery,
the summer selection was worn and weathered.
Spring would come around
and clear the scene.
Autumn arrived bearing gifts in gads
of epoch proportion.
Meanwhile-
Above, watched over want
Below, held forts in need
None ventured in between.
It had been seen once
long ago, a fleet
was shipped to second
check, the message never
sent to Here.
All told of a peek
over there
where
passers by
wave and meet
upon approaching
the vanishing middle
lies a broken chain
where it was said
Time told them
Everything is different
Now.
Image By Daderot [Public domain], Astrononmical Calendar, Yunnan, China via Wikimedia Commons.
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