December 24, 2012

• when they say the glass is half empty...just make bubbles

  apollo the one who works from afar 
  know eye am truly of croaked smoke
  the kind that seeps into yews
  breathing into specs of moons
  giving sight to the hills of curved thoughts

  rived from the dawn of a son of a sun
  within the hues of beams in light
  that is the crescent smile of luna
  healer of the mirrored path
  ebbed into dreams

  from this poet resting upon the limestone steps
  listening to zephyrs woe the blades of evergreen
  bending to the dew of mourning of tears
  as the dawn of his journey's current
  is of muddy torrents brushing him in ebbs
  the spiders of his past stalk in the silence

  he sink further into soil
  whispering to the leaves
  of a life never boiled in passion
  but ever the cup filled to the brim
  with clever whims of compassion

  • 2:14 pm
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