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Rated: E · Poetry · Other · #1423914
Written Thrursday, March 8, 2008
Trees heavily sigh, virescent
Limbs held high above the barren
Sky, skeleton fingers grasp at light.
Music sounds like radio waves,
Tin mosquitos wail and drone, the
Palindromist on his tin can throne,
Declaiming the lyrics, for those who
Don't know, high in the Stratosphere satellites moan
Reach down toward the limbs of the trees that have grown.
The space in-between's where the white waves are flown,
Trace and embrace in cerulean air -
Cerebrally aware of the listless despair
Of the skeletal trees so submissively
Steeped in the filth of the earth from the moment
of birth - though in vain, they'd endeavor
Evermore, through all weather, to touch and to feel
that which is unreal, the truths unexplored levitate in black fields
the Siberian highs so far away from
what lies in the overgrown mangroves of home

But oh, now in burning are spirits released
Free, from the foulness of men and beast,
Fire, to purge the disease and decay, diminishing
Pain from the festering clay,
The millstone of being consumed by a flame.
And how, in such glory, the ashes ascend
The tortuous snowflakes so beautifully rend,
Sever from blackened and smoldering limbs
Bestride the wild whims of the wandering winds,
And in eminence claim the vast sable expanse,
Her diamonds gleam lazily, fondly entranced
By the dance of the embers' ephemeral bliss
A kiss gleaned from Urania on each searing shard
While the wild fires minuet with tranquil white stars.
© Copyright 2008 Zach W. Austin (zachaustin at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1423914