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The Sentence
by Tony WhitakerI awoke at dawn
I gaze up at a gray soupy sky
Out of old habit
But nothing was there
Pallid vapor billows into clouds of gloom
Designing a day identical to the one before
If only my heart were stone
I put my boots on
Always there the grainy air
Across my face a filter
Once white and soft
Now a gray ragged grimy cloth
Allowing dying lungs to sample
The mortar of their tombs
I stop on a stone bridge
Where water slurries into a pool
Churning firmly into gray foam
Remembering once I watched
Trout swaying in this current
Their perfect shadows
On the stones beneath
Each day the spirit within wanes
From the lost hope of finding life
Now withered by man’s
Fatal final infection
Nature’s gavel now falls on all
Standing I know the sentence:
Death by man’s own hand
As I hear the cry
Of the butterfly
01/16/2011 Author's Note: This started from the Haiku I posted earlier. Isn't it strange how something like this can spring from something meant to be beautiful?
Posted on 01/16/2011
Copyright © 2026 Tony Whitaker
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by George Hoerner on 01/16/11 at 07:33 PM There is always something of beauty in what you write Tony even when it hits on a subject that many refuse to discuss. Man does indeed have a final an inescapable disease from which there is no escape. It is called 'time'. |
| Posted by Clara Mae Gregory on 01/18/11 at 01:55 AM ...into my favorites this goes... |
| Posted by Glenn Currier on 03/08/11 at 07:18 PM The shadows on the trout, the gray foam - images that are very evocative to me and call up many a memory. I do so relate to waning spirit AND the cry of the butterfly. Outstanding, Tony. Thank you so much for this beautiful piece. |
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