The Weathering
Wandering are the children, youth´s very own blossoms, grown tall and searching heaven´s meadows, or lost in the maze of lies weathered upon the soul.
Gone are the elders, uncles and fathers, early departures for unknown heavens, with friends, victims of the undifferentiating erosion of time.
Elapsed, the summer, into the yellowing foliage of its own family tree, cut for tonight´s last hope fire, warmth before the cold bite of autumn devours its final meal.
Faded are the magikal colours and whispers of hair, hardened muscles and swiftness of feet. Here stumble forward the aches and pains of winter, dusting its own dismal flavouring upon the feathers of the wing, her effervescence flattened by neglect.
Lost is hope for nation, dissolved in the urine of its own wet dreams, spilled caustically upon the sheets of an unexamined cult.
Its last few words, unresolved, drip upon the tiles of a sordid toilet floor.
Wandering are the children, youth´s very own blossoms, grown tall and searching heaven´s meadows, or lost in the maze of lies weathered upon the soul.
Gone are the elders, uncles and fathers, early departures for unknown heavens, with friends, victims of the undifferentiating erosion of time.
Elapsed, the summer, into the yellowing foliage of its own family tree, cut for tonight´s last hope fire, warmth before the cold bite of autumn devours its final meal.
Faded are the magikal colours and whispers of hair, hardened muscles and swiftness of feet. Here stumble forward the aches and pains of winter, dusting its own dismal flavouring upon the feathers of the wing, her effervescence flattened by neglect.
Lost is hope for nation, dissolved in the urine of its own wet dreams, spilled caustically upon the sheets of an unexamined cult.
Its last few words, unresolved, drip upon the tiles of a sordid toilet floor.
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Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda.
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Labels: Luxury of Grace
posted by Tom Radzienda | 10:44 PM
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