A Prayer for Dying Ways
Sorrowful are the wooden giants whose tired arms
Stretch upwards to a weeping sky,
And whose painted garnishes drift,
Like a dying man’s whisper to the littered soil.
They stand wearily forgotten
Like deposed kings holding out withered hands
To catch their Divine Mother’s tears.
Too long have these holy towers been devoid of worship.
Tell me. Where has the Romantic world fled?
Where are the servants to creation, the honored hosts of inspiration
Who would cry with a mother over the loss of her legacy,
Their own tears mingling with black ink and dark rain?
Where are those who would seek counsel with the trees,
Or the Keepers of the keys to intellectual beauty and salvation?
Those devoted disciples have fallen to the Clock’s persecution.
All that remains are the blasphemous architects
Who would dare build false idols
Upon the desecrated graves of fallen timber.
Those who shun Her beauty rest safe in illusioned order,
Coddled by poisonous brick and mortar.
Are there any who still believe in the magic of the Eolian Harp
And seek refuge under haggard branches?
Is there an eager child who, when she is not trapped behind glass walls,
miraculously listens to the dying whispers?
Or an old man who searches for leeches
In hopes of finding a ripple of divinity?
There is at least one left in this life.
Until Nature breathes her very last—
Until the wind lays still in her ancient bosom
And the seeds of the forest lay trapped underneath seas of concrete,
I will be her antiquated servant
That prays underneath wooden giants,
hoping that one day the Romantics will return.
YOU ARE READING
Storm Prophecies
PoesíaRain falls in crosshatch across the lamp lit sky, splattering the asphalt ground with splashes of reflected light. I look at the sketchbook in my hand and trace the penciled rain and smudged glow. It was shit. I let to book fly onto the muddy grass...
