Voices on The Wind
I can hear them, but it's too late.
I hear you calling on the broken winds.
Honey eyes melting into sunrise,
Beauty collapsing under the pressure of
Volcanic plumes. Ash. Snow. Fallout.
.
It melts and I am left with a bloody peloton,
Hundreds of bodies piled high on asphalt,
Smashed into the cobblestones,
And trailing clotted clumps of flesh.
.
Summer arrives and the stench of disaster
Is unbearable for the worst cynicist.
Take the flame in hand, smoke a cigar,
And get over it.
.
Move on like the survivors and keep those
Glowing little dreams of peace in a jar.
Stare at the glass, close your eyes
And let it glow on the back of your eyelids.
.
Because the winter won't leave when you yearn
For warmth and the summer will burn through
Pale eyes when you daydream of the cold.
Just sleep. Succumb to the fatigue.
.
Go before lidded eyelids refuse to close.
Leave before the nuclear wind steals your breath
And scatters your words across dead empires.
Abandon the dreaming dead.
________________________
Silver Serpent Books
________________________
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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Comments (1)
I keep re-reading this and finding new meanings in your words. Nicely composed!