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terça-feira, 29 de janeiro de 2013


Purple silverlinnings.
Golden leaves at dawn.
Blue sparkles of light.
Grey eyes beholding.
Dark thoughts unfolding.
The sun is a rusted dime.
Birds of fire hide on heavy clouds.
The thunder roars a lulabby.
Times are changing.
But not passing by.

What rest is fire.
Under the skin, no pain.
Pain, poetry, no more.
No memory of yore.
No shinning secrets.
Nothing to keep warm or cold.
At the bottom of a rainy night.
On the top of a sunny day.
The poet is gone.
Gold is just a mere stone.

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