Mazes

The sun closes in on itself imploding. Storm clouds clots like cream. The sky tinged a rancid yellow of dream raises tornadoes like totems scolding. A wet haze weeps through the pine trees furthering the sky’s somber malaise. Life, a missing actor on the stage, the rare and ripest red of blood, ceases. Yet, the bole of trees carved, coalesces to form the winged memory of bird, man and bear, letting all of those who have forgotten stare upon the aged markers of clans long gone. And so life, death and the day end eternally glazed making way for rain-bowed hues within the maze. Poet: D. Guzzi Date: 8/13/11