This is how the vision
did dare subside
in a flashing pregnant moment:
You booming shelves of clouds,
burning at your rough-hewn corners
behind the guise of milky burning light
deeply entrenched with the mist of a sublime glow
I gaze at you-
proudly freeing the instinctive infant
in times so fearfully and falsely set aside.
Stormy visions have lately plagued the skin,
boils of a pensive Eastern flea
scorn these caged hours
as the bed finds itself being the raft
amidst cancerous day-distraught times.
With a bruised neck I
crank my bones to shift
my gaze towards the seashore-grey
formation dancing in evenings halls,
as a few well-dressed thoughts gather themselves
to play the limber weather-wearers
a few festive songs.
Ah, this exhale of the eyes
begins to resent itself
as the evening image dissolves behind hills
-I tug and grab at my jacket to
hurl myself over my fright;
the great sky sculpture
(all too telling of these days)
begins to wither hopelessly
as the darkness begins to pull itself
from the rain-day's emaciated sunlight cycle.
As the heavy hanging grays and dirty pales
into the deep haze of blue and orange,
as it all collides
with the poet's veil,
I let my hand off my collar
breathing in a smile of
for the dreadful hauntings of melancholy
have found themselves captured in
the waking manifestation of sight.