A moon in my azure sky
is a pinpoint for the mystique
it still has after
all these long years
colors never fade with age,
but sanctuaries crumble -
history has taught us that temples
are constantly overrun
and life was never quite so different
Our sun, or whatever radiance
shades our skin these days,
is questioned constantly -
why does it shine,
and for how much longer?
and when it all comes crashing down,
pure notes melding an orchestra
of tragedy -
why is it so beautiful?
helpless, dark and distant figures stand
with hands clasped in quiet repose
observing celestial sprites burning
a dance into oblivion.
we know the sun will burn and fall,
and we accept it hardly stands a chance.
so where do we outpour
this human angst, but on time -
something intangible fluttering
betwixt tree seeds and passing clouds.
like breath, it involuntarily
pulls our skin with black-knit gravity
and snatches lovers away with
elusive breezes and gusts,
disintegrating whatever our weak fingers
can close over -
things we protect with ramparts and weapons
that might as well be blades of grass.
time is tragic, as it
is the deified force doomed to
dismantle beauty whether it goes on
or stops raining calamity on
a catalytic, nanosecond world
that learned only how to curse
the strands linking them to life.
Life, now, which
takes seconds to explain,
minutes to understand and
a lifetime to tear down.
it is as gaseous as the stars,
which romantically can be said
to be the entrance of angels,
music and miracles...
life, which only encompasses the green in grass
it does not sweep the dance along,
nor bloom flowers in a field.
it is only a dusky dirt road or
an asphalt foundation with
the only quality of making you
fall down.
so short, we face scenes
that are slightly more close to home.
after all, there are slideshows
caught in your retinas -
faces and noises you will never forget
we could spend a lifetime
deciphering why baseball bats sound
similar on balls and skulls...
why bodies break so easily
and hold the strongest souls.
the skeletons and ghosts that wander
the Savannah and our streets,
and lastly why we can
ignore the broken cry
that still echoes as we wash the dishes,
watch TV or laugh...
the jarring notes prominent in our dreams
these demons inside us
triggered by the juices of a crushed flower
and the minuscule child's hand -
blood and tears,
which are really
quite the same.
The half moon still breeds mystery
in a world where we know
the sun is falling,
smothering our ashy dreams
and eating us alive
we think tragedy’s romantic
and we're breathing guilt and
penning our goodbyes
on parchment falling from the lifelines
of platinum's sweet lies.
Laugh, because this world is falling off
the hems of skirts and hems of skies...
it all comes alive in genocide
Great work!