Seven Days
seven days a week... the intervals in between
can shape twilight into scented ambrosia
and turn noontime to boiled potion of tan,
dusk smears the sky darkening bronze
while an eve, a textured chameleon...
the shrill and serenity of minutes
can blaze the air with time's ecstasy
or numb the splintered liver of pain's regret.
are these days that pour of subway’s sweat,
then emboss night with a vault
of celibate, white stars? coffee and newspaper
expire as the hours dwindle into clockwork ticks.
and hands cradle an endless space
bathed in the moist kiss of dawnbreak
floating on a veil graced by
life's alchemy, unbidden...
seven days a week: a deep hole lost
in a melee between men and beasts,
defining not the terms and conditions
of human traces that linger or stain
the lines of meridians blending haste with
pace?
there are no answers,
i just wade like a child becoming a fetus
without all these adult specs rendering
white stars,celibate...
in seven days a week.
Space and Time Contest
new poem
use of small caps is intentional
2/12/2014
Copyright © Nette Onclaud | Year Posted 2014
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