by Gideon Burton
On certain days of jagged, rusting hope
when hours sour in the vinegar
of shredding expectations, and the scope
of grace withdraws before the predator
of freshened failures, snarling, heavy, thick
and viral, coughing mockeries of me--
On twilight noons when purposes lie sick
and halting, fetid in their own debris,
and those I have petitioned stay exempt
from all persuasion, struggle as I might--
This whisper-spell of words, this scrawled attempt,
this inky, bluish, bloody, scrabbling fight--
A tiny room of dignity, released
by rhythmed language to a stream of peace.
No comments:
Post a Comment