The paste that swims across the black-top slides
profanely: slurries and gray rain arranged
in loose contempt, begetting bleak outsides
that bury trifling corpses. My estranged
perspective minds the dead - the private snowflakes
coagulated, beautiful alone,
so dismal in a mass, consigned by cloudquakes'
diluvian disdain to melt unknown,
unseen, uncherished, unresolved, with no
serene to breathe, nor western islands to
surmise. The little Dariens, aglow
with silver summits, dance anew
above the manic slush, and float in fearless
devotion - sacred, passionate and peerless.
1 comment:
Well, and to not be an official pest I decided to leave alone your tactics in "sonneteering" of late. If you wish to depart, as with this lovely tribute to a snowy and rainy scene, I cannot seriously concur it is a sonnet, but it is a delightfully clever tribute.
Excellent imagery and beautifully expressive of not only the scene progressing, but also the sentiments it provokes in the disconsolate viewer gazing on the dismal and forlorn vista. The mountains are the only solace?
Wonderful tribute! I truly enjoy such, hence am thankful you bothered to write one. I only regret it doesn't entirely make the grade...I suspect.
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