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sore, sullen branches mildly swish
with the cool winds,
swallowing up the swollen senses,
the actual rise it hid,
i occasionally hear the ache,
strands with their green amiss,
i see an enraged yellow sprinkling glow
in its wake, into an abyss.
of snow full of life or was it just
sheathing the fog of despair?
the world is up and about,
as that surly skunk slept,
adrift from the mildew, the dampness
seemed inept.
to tumble softly with a thud,
like a loose pollen on the mud.
snow angels were carved into
the creamy white, hardened.
snowmen were made and bumped into,
i wonder if they were hurt but
blanked it away,
did they console their new connoisseur
in malady, did they share the dismay?
for i'm aware the plight of the bare
branches waiting to be inevitably greened.
the sun ached for its effect,
as the river below
yearned for their smooth descent.
surely, they felt solace in
aiding in the glee of others,
but it seemed a futile attempt
to misplace the guilt,
when we've always known
but never interfered,
as their innocent spirits were nourished
and thereafter, murdered.
for it took a shapely norm in our minds,
housed pietously in our conscience,
like a caterpillar in its cocoon;
that the sun rises the next day,
peeping from below the
quilt of starry lumen,
that it would surely enliven the
criss cross, the rather weary streets
without a mere mention of how it leaves
the other half in an imperishable dun.
______________
23/12/2021
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YOU ARE READING
rhymes of the wicked
Poésie· this terrene, so aphotic. my voice unduly too thin. will it even reach the perpetrators or will it be buried within? i, revel in my convoluted, never particularly welcomed but occasional darkness here, as i take path d...
