“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Thursday, September 8, 2016
Color transfusion
September, said the sky
stirring the air into a bitter frenzy.
With tension
teeth bared, her clouds growl while
making steel eyes squint back
for clarity between greys.
A breath of earth seeking rain.
Pastels all put away,
slate carries excess white,
backing black and blue up-
on sun less days.
The sky fell into our lap,
sobbing at her reflection.
Autumn yellow goes red
where the seasons bled
(out).
Painting by Johan Christian Dahl [Public domain], Cloud Study over flat landscape (1837) via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
And then...
Change is like that strong smell of cut grass or chopped wood that stops you still. Patterns, a symbol can be an illegible sign, at first...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
Today seems like a good day to burn a bridge or two. The sky resembles a backlit canopy with holes punched in it. In California...
-
This world is not for breath for feelings also come and go. As hard and light as Push and pull Go. Busy hands and bees-electricity, alter...
No comments:
Post a Comment