Oh,
sleeping son
of faded stars, blue
blood rhythms seething.
Ensconced in layers of dusty
sheets, blankets of camphor and
must. Generations of gentiles carefully
coiffed screech to a muted
halt in this black room
with white noise.
When
you shrug, I am
Atlas, robust and red.
When dreams are accessed,
dust must fall. Daily our rhythms
meter, teetering on the brink.
Oh,
who will release
the shudder, the ancient
worry, exposing our pastures
for green. Future is written in
sepia-toned captures of dreams.
sleeping son
of faded stars, blue
blood rhythms seething.
Ensconced in layers of dusty
sheets, blankets of camphor and
must. Generations of gentiles carefully
coiffed screech to a muted
halt in this black room
with white noise.
When
you shrug, I am
Atlas, robust and red.
When dreams are accessed,
dust must fall. Daily our rhythms
meter, teetering on the brink.
Oh,
who will release
the shudder, the ancient
worry, exposing our pastures
for green. Future is written in
sepia-toned captures of dreams.
Posts
1 comment:
This poem calls me to believe that better is possible.
Tony's ancestors are here in him and they are experiencing what is. Tony may reveal and maintain a better 'is'.
My ancestors are here too, experiencing.
Post a Comment