Out yonder mountains falls the scalding sun,
thick among burning branches,
dancing along red blades of grass.
The embers of the fire grow cold
among their orange glowing brethren
turning black.
Huddled and chilled, wrapped in a carcass
a man stares into the fading light.
From pink to purple and gold to blue
a wind delivers the rushing turns, the
breaking winds, the gusts.
He reaches out his calloused palms
as if in prayer, as if pleading;
as if to hold the weight of the sun
from falling.
Isolated in that place, he fails.
The sun falls.
The fire dies.
His soul is crushed under its weight,
left to smolder, a pile of embers turned black.
Isolated in that place, he falls.
Out yonder mountains swallows a black sky
among littered branches and pine needles,
among the fallen blades of blue grass
the dead things are forgotten.
No comments:
Post a Comment