Incisions, crimson, ripple down the skin

I watched a National Geographic show about Angkor Wat, Cambodia with the kids. Mysterious, ancient, eerie. This poem seemed to fit the image of this library in ruins from that strange spot in Asia.

Incisions, crimson, ripple down the skin

by Gideon Burton

Incisions, crimson, ripple down the skin

of western sky, as though the other side

were blood and thunder stanched by timely light.

The remnant moisture glistens in the thin

and thinning twilight. Vapors melt, subside,

relax into oblivions. The might

of sunrays abdicates, the crickets’ fright

is amplified in quickened thrums. The dried

and sullen face along the rising moon

approves or disapproves in measured pride,

and if and when a thunderhead compiles

in thickening stealth, the moment is too soon:

our Amazons are filling full and wide

with tempered salt, with sinners rank and file.

Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo credit: flickr: stuck in customs