the chiming bells of birdsong
the glitter of sun
falling through the trees
landing on me like the prayers
of angelic guardians.
I'll take the deep breaths
the quiet pedals
the caress of the wind
the stroke of the brush
the bleeding of the pen
the holy moments
the blistering dreams.
You can have the race
the rats in the slaver's ships
the burning rancid night oils
the creeping heavy dark
like ammonia over manure
the dull and sudden pig kills
the wild, sinking, wrinkling eyes
the snap under the weight
of mortal decay.
You can have the race
I will take the quiet walks.
No comments:
Post a Comment