Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Whirling Hope

Waking up to a thirsty blue sky,
crawling with juices out the clouds
all the world rises for a call
shrouded in tone of whimpering certainty.
Many deaths mark the screen,
children shout the songs of sickness
and the poets pace back and forth
around the dirty outskirt busstops.
The stop watch on the flashing hand
is halting in its ticking steps,
the artists limp
in the city center
out of confused madness
for the forgotten murkiness
brought about by the dearly departed
dark night.

In secession of successive seconds,
the poets kiss the painters
both hoping to hold the seasons
close to their tongues
as blanketing smoke clogs the dawn
and breaks the moon into
springtime shards.

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