one long winter

one winter when the summer was in bloom,
the sky resorts and the evening looms
the bones do not chill and the silence is not quiet
it is bearable but blood begins to spoil

new morning dawn breaking with the sea salt coating my skin
waking slowly afraid of breaking breath not my vow;
the purple hemisphere mixed with violet,
the golden lit road alibis spraying across the pavement

glass chards from tinted windows and beer, opiates asunder
with hallow bodies celebrating never to have been born,
skin wrinkled paint leavened flecks in cornrolls working
the Baptist church parking lot, tape deck quietly playing deep

a cerebral leer for a bona-fide junket where the soul stands in wait
sobriety is a sparse term, relatively, scornfully misused; lacking wisdom
of each lesson learned; there are folks who do not demand expatiating,
they just go down to the job under the most friendliest term

the dense humidity under the gravel road; the forensic passivity
a timidity of a lost and hungry child standing dust consumed
in these equations do we doubly anger the gods with our gifts,
that instant eternal shadow of grief resolving revenge

the purest of heart become the most savage
hiding in the blandishments of suffering sin
by what is despised most in love; imitating a language of an art consumed
by single minded focus that sigh longingly in abstract octave



ШАМРО

July 4, 2008

© woundedlordliterature 2008