Soon to appear in "Expressions: An Anthology of Short Works", White Oak Press.
|The mourning breeze yields to the columns,|
earth and scarred as Earth itself.
Through the course it weeps its tragic sorrow,
for none but the dead to shelf.
As the quiet dirge assembles
to its post-humanic drone,
only beads of red resemble
the fate of actors gone.
The thriving wind yields to nothing,
an open plane of corridors.
Nothing to hide the sound of no one,
with nothing to adore.
As the vipers pierce the soil,
with none to cut them down,
I took back what was always mine,
from his frosting crown.
What had he to offer?
A mere delay at best.
Why did he have to suffer?
For the sake of simple rest?
So the mourning wind says to the eyes:
“He came as the rain, utterly in vain,
and I was forced to pause
For sake of zealous pain.”
Forced to breathe silent
for the sake of pain.