What is left
Upon starlit eyes,
Where galaxies shift into
Wasted constellations,
From sheltering
Consolation.

The running dark
From the milky white
Waters the hands of God,
Among the fruit to His garden
As wrath boils
In the fervor.

Passion entices
Lost elements
To run with the wind,
To that vacant heart.

Share the weather
For not what leaves
With the breeze,
Bending branches to burial
For a thousand more
Risen sculptures.

Why do the rocks
Carve themselves,
Into dust?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s