Wednesday, January 14, 2009


Dark is the morning
we cannot see,
fingers search disturb
dead air;
a blind man seeks
any portal,
any blessed

ray of light.

Dawn wakes to clatter,
to boot heels and cannon
her pale hair
by rockets' red fire;
Dawn wakes to shattered dreams of silence,
the sound of a swan in the distance
weeping the demise of her mate.

Dark is the mourning
we do not hope to see,
the blind man seeks
the deepest portal
reaches for even a cursed
ray of light.

(Image: Dawn, BK Levi)