by scott from jail

Perhaps the clouds that cover morning now
Their windiness so caustic and forlorn
The rocking of the willow at the bough
The lantern stirring on its crooked thorn -
Perhaps the grey, impenetrable air
Its yearning, distant blue, its rigic sky,
Its tingling chimes, like mystics in a lair
Revealed alone to birds who dare not fly -
Perhaps these are the harbingers of night
Which lies twelve hours away by Springtime's hand
And Truth both insurmountable and trite
Reveals in these what dominates the land -
The sadness of a weary world at war
Which schemes and screams for ever and for more.

Copyright © 2011 - scott from jail
Published: 10/20/11   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem