Poetry

Harrowed serpents stretchthrough the distressed sky,eating the sun’s last light.Street lamps forge motes of dustinto sulking elementals,shambling in a dying breeze.In my pocket,a phone that will not ring. Lost love lingers here,a heavy hand on my heartas my soul is baptizedin the violence of grief.A different life laughsfrom the tempting darknesscompelling me to listento what could have been. It is seductive to imaginesharing mind and mystery,the harp of heartsplaying that sweet song.Not belonging to the superficial;intrigued by the art of the world’s pain.Because, perhaps, like me,it is wounded and weary. But wisdom knows this season,this glacial time of reflection,harbinger of tomorrow’s secrets.It knows cocoa and campfires,stagnation and death.Without a consultation,without a wink from autumn,winter here has come. It is in that failing lightthat birds fly southand surviving beasts seek rest.It is the stubborn that remain.The guardian burns a white candleto see us through the gray mists,promising new beginnings,reminding us of…