Are we almost at after?
The lies of fevered fools still fly high,
fiddling as the world burns, aches, screams
and shadow figures whisper more and faster
the ferocious fight for air,
for a breath
you listen for if in the poetry of rose-tipped dawns,
when the sky smiles through clouds in bird-voiced joy,
here the scent of coffee, a cat at the window
gazing at the light of beyond, and maybe
there will be more
of perfumed breezes from blue-green oceans
of brilliant color in the darkness,
the echo of star-music, whose rhythm beats in our hearts,
recalling the before.
Today’s message from the Oracle. A double-puente, I suppose. I can’t get the spacing right.