The blackest night wrapped around the lake of Votna - snow fell fast what is up and what is down? A fist held tightly not allowing a single sound.
Below the murky waters lay a creature unfound.
On its serrated time timetable and its unfounded clean the concoction mirrors the souls it has taken, they could not find his place of refuge, but a cauldron of
whispered tensions among a deepening tragedy of history and evocative lies of
the breath of wrath that must be emoting in constance.
In the belly of the beast grows a hunger.
Earth and still life start to crumble. The eyes of the beast look into a bleeding soul – don’t ever, ever grow old.
A swimmer gazes under the cold lifeless moon. Tensions rise on the shore of steel knives. Violin strings cut through the wind. Mirrors of blackness - warmth seeps in steep pools - mid winters child learns of white dawn.
In the boarders set, and a blundering storm of mimicry, before the sights of knives, teeth, and his kneeling stance of predercoutship, we could sense the shifting season arrive, landing on the very night and the poor guy, never feeling a drift from the pools depths come alive.
COLLAB POEM WITH JIMMI CANADA
Copyright © Nancy Beckman | Year Posted 2019
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