Beautifully empty,
I turn to the slivers of blue
Cracking open the dark undersides
Of the marching clouds parading lightning bolts
And weaponry across my sky.
_______________________
The wind yells and screams,
Slapping across my face a list of wrongs.
Frigid rigidity is inexcusable beneath the warm sun
Of a fresh new season,
The fires of a dry spring.
_______________________
I am caught between the eyes of two raptors.
The talons of fear dig deep into my back,
Dotting strong muscles with bloody caves
And weeping pools.
The keys will not hold a tune.
_______________________
The sky has fractured.
White and black splinter the war zones.
Spring is violent, turbulent with confused desires.
But I follow the black pebbles pelting my windows
With bitten-back intrigue and a tied-up tongue.
_______________________
There is something dancing on the wind.
Something I can feel brush against my skin,
Skate sweetly across my tongue,
Something I cannot understand enough to witness
Or grab in my hand.
_______________________
It coiled tighter throughout the cold
And has let itself unwind, jolt through the atmosphere,
Seize even apathetic hearts with the flame of newness.
There is a freshness to the world
That has slaughtered the stale cold.
_______________________
Silver Serpent Books
_______________________
Not much today, just a small poem about spring. I like marking each season at the start, middle, and end. Over the years, when I look back at my work I can distinctly remember the uniqueness of each season and year. It's become something of a tradition.
About the Creator
Silver Serpent Books
Writer. Interested in all the rocks people have forgotten to turn over. There are whole worlds under there, you know. Dark ones too, even better.
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