Thursday, November 8, 2007

The View

at a slow rolling pace

moves the corpulent moon

through the cunning clouds of the night myth

crushing the curse of razor winter

scattering all attachment and devotion to this agile season

she stands adjacent to a still willow tree

listening to the west winds sifting through her hair

a forgotten concept of unfulfilled faith

essential as a catalyst for the inspiration that she will need

to endure a stint on the clicking overgrown rooftop gardens

of black buildings

when any sane person in her place

without her warriors heart

would fall forward and drown in the still grim waters of fear

the tall trees tower around us

but for her we'll wake to sirens.

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