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Dark Poetry From the ash of wind
the summer sun will rise.
Phoenix.
Flower in bloom.
Smells so sweet of rotting stars and an elegy so cruel.
Into time of color you walk.
For singed and scorn is the lonely world.
And fall, we say
amongst the folds of auburn.
Autumn gold.
Orange flames, the fire dancers,
and burning flesh on the brittle earth.
Barren and dead is the spoiled world.
In bitter blows of winter's chill.
Numb.
Overcome
the touch of frost upon your fingertips.
Lightly, the snow clings to your halo.
Tragic queen--angelic and fragile is the frozen world.
Yet water runs and rain now pours.
Spring forth from the skylight.
Cleanse.
Bathed in the cool washes of newly dug streams.
The resavoir overflowing with the corpses of these past
as droplets form
cascading down preternatural skin.
Fresh is the pallor of the sinking world.
When we cry--we sail
on a simple requiem for the shards of broken seasons.
Shattered.
And the fractured world is ours.
