8 Nov 2018 poem


Smoke stacks survive
the unrepentant embers’ desire to burn.

Ash-pile graves sprinkled with golden leaves
suggest the earth remembers the fires that burned the night sky black.

Mountains of ignorance, snow capped in grievance,
bend the sun toward the bluer spectrum, to a violet nearly shadow.

The seeds of anger are undisplayed injuries
pressed close to the chest in unyielding hands that refuse to open.

See the calligraphic pain scripted across the breast,
cardinal ribbons exhorting exalted poems with ciphered meanings

that twist willowy tongues with a stone-throw verse,
that chip the chiseled Savior’s ears to the depth of their deafness.

copyright 2018 Kenneth P. Gurney


2 thoughts on “8 Nov 2018 poem

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