The lion in the winter
raises feral cubs
to the dismay of
a mother's love
As the snow sets
on the matted mane
and soaks deep into
a maddened brain
There a fragile future
Flawed and fleeting
somehow sings in sadness
This generation repeating
Sleep water still
Still night awake
Come death of a lion
We here shall wait
And dreams dangled down
shall soon surround
in all their weighty
and restless sounds
The great king passes
into the dark unseen
as we weep in our pillows
for these mysterious things
(September 10th, 2017)
YOU ARE READING
Post Modern Mystic
PoetryPoetry fills a need of the human heart to express through the construction of artistic verse, the things that hide in its depths. This book of poetry is my attempt to reach those places and beyond. See if I do. Let me know if I reach you. This will...
