Friday, February 29, 2008

Dawn Cycle

The eternity of sepulchral night
dissolves in a bruised wash
silhouetting eastern eaves.

Unconscious the houses stand
mausoleums of domesticity.

Slowly, without ceremony
the sky changes values
cepholopodal ink billows
into a line of Rose,
touches lowering clouds
and comes a band of gold.

Feathered heralds proclaim
then slip away
to find the damned worm.

Magnificence fades to pale grey.
The world turns beneath its covers
and like a grumpy Lazarus mutters
"oh what now?".

The miraculous transformation
of another day.

Like it or not.