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Blood-red Morning

A blood-red private view of morning
A second chance to climb the attic stairs.
The ceiling, ticking time, cascades
A thousand pricking darts, stampeding 
Purple chariots, blanketing the sky.
The zealot's blade, so swift to still
The heart that beats an alien rhythm,
No backward glance to desolation.
Within a vastness all-consuming,
The wolf retreats to primal isolation
And howls unheeded at a distant,
Cold and quite indifferent moon.
As thunder clouds converge
And drown all hope of harvest home,
We find that, like the wolf, we are alone.
Inertia quickens, takes a hand,
At last to move the day.
The cabbage, wilting on the edge of sanity,
Bleakly views the blackened pot.
The steady chop chop chop is heralding 
The grand ensemble of the daily stew.
Regardless, now the day's awake,
The perils lost in sleep are there anew.
The blood-red now transforms to palest grey.
The resurrected monotone of every day.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2017




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Date: 12/14/2017 2:31:00 PM
-  It may be that I, as the reader will find a meaning that is different from the author of this wonderful write ... very well written, Peter - I use this comment to wish you and your family a peaceful and beautiful Christmas :) - hugs // Anne-Lise :)
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Peter Rees
Date: 12/14/2017 3:17:00 PM
Thank you Anne-Lise. Sometimes there are many interpretations. To each his own. I'm so glad you found something in this poem And thank you so much for your comment. With very very best wishes for Christmas and a wonderful 2018
Date: 12/14/2017 1:52:00 PM
Woah... This is a powerful write... some vivid imagery in this one Peter..
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Peter Rees
Date: 12/14/2017 3:20:00 PM
Thank you Silent One. A bit mischievous on my part. Many thanks for your comment. Happy Christmas.