In the Woods of Contemplation
Glacial illusions sing about passion
drifting like snowflake eyes
from this place to that,
between knowing and voices
that sound like hollow bells.
Time becomes symmetrical,
eucalyptus and sprawling like
rainbows across my horizon,
galloping into night like
a nocturnal steed.
It feels like perdition dawned a
coat, maudlin and professing grief,
struggling with the years wear.
The language is tangible, displaying a
tenure of stamina, floating in the air
full of muslin repose.
Here among the vines, syllables intersect
and collide with thumping consonants
that feel like thunder.
Here water trickles like mercury smiling
with puffy cheeks, even the punctuation
takes on colour, all the foliage
turns to crimson demanding to be heard.
The sky is full of branches, chattering like
chipmunks in long drawn out sentences,
asking for chestnuts instead of hope.
Everything is becoming nothing
the way a ghost is forgotten, swallowed by hours
of dust and fingerprints
that can no longer trace the chalk
green forest.
Kevin Harling.
No comments:
Post a Comment