“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Monday, June 1, 2020
Sundialing
Under the darkness
I wait for daylight
and it slowly drains
all energies made
over-this-night.
I find myself
empty and long
for the warm light
to wane
or die
back down
knowing this
way we live is insane
and making it not so different
from this sentence.
The years blend by lumens
and erase all traces
of anticipation
for another
night
to escape
for day to come,
for the light that never
dawned upon me...
unrisen and incapable
of my occasional
need to know
what a future holds
without hands.
Painting by 'German Master' unknown, Still Life with skull, sundial, wax jack' c. 1620 in Public Domain.
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