I'm enduring the longest winter's nightfall
that sends shivers to these chilling bones,
I sleep very soundly wandering in the remotest places
of childhood in which I left many traces;
I'm living in the past responding to the call,
stupefied by landscapes beneath a dashing waterfall!
Waking up before sunrise, I stumble upon
the unbright gleams of exuding stars, I inhale the deepest breath,
believing that a radiant light always brings on
an awareness of continuous life often ending in unexpected death!
Night owls' barred sounds still resonate to impose their power
continuing to dominate a constant atmosphere of endless fear,
but crows persist and defy them: they are vicious adversaries;
it's not only humans who fight for the supremacy of the skies!
How hilarious and ironic is the assumption of wild creatures and Man!
They deny the Maker of bodies and souls, the Creator of every universe
yet to be discovered by powerful nations competing in a mad rat race;
yes, we have built great civilizations, but not fully developed our brain.
I awaken with languid eyes gazing at the passing dawn.
Strange light rays hover over ancient graves
Jestering- tormenting souls
Where spindled wildweeds grow
And sway over a dull domain, and
Under clouds with nimble fingers accusing...
pointing down. They pause to sit-
Brittled, splintered, to take a breath
Waiting to sweep unbright fields
Of rye and corn.
Now standing, they float away
With the rays sighing in blustery winds,
Gusting like torrents from the north
Spilling thorns and stems
Around the livestock- propped and tall
Like sentries who do not know nor care.
Horns lowered to eat what's left
Grazing, tails swishing, numb to silverdrops
And firebolts, blazing in the background.
The old woman turns in her tomb,
Facing downward- blind to the squalor above.
A twitch of finger
A thumb
A toe
Stretching, as the worms rest in soft shells
Inside sallowed orbs. Then in a flick- a flash-
Tumbleweeds hurry to leas now stitched
In rusted cathedrals, wrestling with directions-
Scurrying to settle in barbed wire, leaving
Old bones in yellow dust.
The light of my life is the tide of the tight
Which half of witchcraft is blight to unbright?
Paper of papal intent in the tent
Fare of the fate to the wittingly went
Knives are nice, but butter is better
A flick of the wrist and a twist of the fetter
Burn through the binder and break down the bricks
The deluge of delusion that stickles and sticks
Ruptured erruptions of singing to sin
Enraptured in rapture by fiddling the fin
Won't will your wont until the wight's won
Sorrowful song of the son of the sun
Lice come less when Winter won't wrest
Sum of the Summer rests in the West
Oughn't the Autumn to singe from the binge
Swing with the Spring of the tingling tinge
Donning the dawn of the bleeding night's blight
Moon dies at noon at the frightening fight
Dust of the dusk falls to slickening breath
Bright light of deep night dreams quickening death.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.