Eos

A poem about an innate and timeless struggle.

The sun descended desultorily
From the grasping
Palms of the sky—
Slowly at first,
Just an inch or two with
Every wretched breath heaved into
My lungs to unfurl carelessly between
My too tight ribs—
And then in liquid, quicksilver meters
To the tired, weary fluttering of my heart.

Sulphur yellow danced with nuclear orange,
Leaving deep, radiant furrows in the
Royal blue pelt of night,
Vying to regain sovereignty of the
Overflowing world below.
The night crept unceasingly forward,
His victory axiomatic and
Already percolating from his veins
In the form of harshly gleaming stars.

The sun, with her last, fragile
Tendrils of dying light,
Gasped out a final, fervid promise—
Her ashen words settling gently over
The barren surface of the moon—
Turning it incandescent with the
Susurrus, eddying whispers of a phoenix,
Soon to be born again.


Eos: Greek goddess of the dawn