I watch the ripples change their size
But never leave the stream
Of warm impermanence
And so the days float through my eyes
But still the days seem the same
And these children that you spit on
As they try to change their worlds
Are immune to your consultations
They're quite aware of what they're goin' through

Monday, October 15, 2012

Happy 3000

This is the 3000th post on Story Bones. To celebrate, have a poem written just for you.

Autumn burns
trees to nakedness,
a bonfire
of maturing night.
The twilight of days
turns the veil translucent
like a window in candlelight.
Faces on each side
searching the gloaming for kin.

Summer's heat wanes to
waxing moonglow
as our guiding
stars magnify,
driving the songs in our chests.
And our imaginations ignite
the cold fires consuming
the northern sky.

A time of revelry
and masks descends
in sparks. A feast
of famines and jest,
a rollicking table of bounty
against the skeletal time to come.
Harvests past echo in snickering blades
and susurrus of satedness.
Et in arcadia ego.
We dance away from
the scythe, knowing soon
our own reaping will
place us in transposition
of the veil.