Monday, March 02, 2009

The paper lanterns are all crimson
under the blue plum of night,
where colour spectrums spatter stars -
chunks of painted eyes
that gaud the sky vault.

Only a slight blemish of dark
filters between light and shadow
beneath verandahs and tight shutters.

His mission is indefinite -
to whispers of telemetry
he leans - arched toward the echo.
Will the lights spark to flame?

Scarlet pools steeped into the street
shriek and stir to ripples, walls giggle
and grind their edges.

He's hoping for news of change,
for promise in the winged shapes of dawn.


Blogger Chris Never said...

Some lovely lines in this kid

"under the blue plum of night "

"Scarlet pools steeped into the street "


"for promise in the winged shapes of dawn."

A beautiful image filled poem my dear

1:21 PM  
Blogger burning moon said...

Thanks Chris. The images are nice, language is nice, but the poem doesn't seem to go anywhere to me. I'm never satisfied I guess ...

1:26 PM  
Blogger Chris Never said...

Depends where you were wanting the poem to go I guess kid *smile*

I enjoyed it for what it was, I wasn't entirely sure of the meaning of this one, but that didn't really effect my pleasure in it.

It is hard to be happy with what we write at times.

1:33 PM  

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