(Poetry is lamb dust)

Soft
and into the sky with utmost ease
and perfect equilibrium
the graceful, lucid moon hangs her head
and sighs with the breeze over cities that know no stars.

A navy blue canvas is lit with the paintings of children
in crayon and chalk.
Little hands help the strokes
to flow free
and to dance with the grain and the weight and the colour
the line and the movement of portraits
still drawn with emotion
if not with precision.

The sun smiles down and reaches pink rays
when they feel that she's blushing.
The sky is etched blue
when it's snowing outside.
These hands will forget all their stories.
They'll wash like sand from the shore,
and all of their bright, unique angles
and sharp jagged egdes-
roughened sides and ziggy zagged lines-
will bow to the slamming of contstant
unstoppable waves.

Overhead
a sphere of white and inanimate rock
will hang poised.
Dead ladies-in-waiting glint in the court of their Queen
but out-shone by watt upon watt of manborne brilliance,
will quake and then fade
their light overlooked to begin with.

The fluid ocean will slide in soft minds
recounting it all
and re-telling nothing.

01/04/2004

Author's Note: To be put in the january contest :)

Posted on 01/04/2004
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