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Delights
The sun has set.Behind mountains green and black slopes crisped with silver snow.Once mighty now the blue bows down,dies,decays.From its bones the gloaming glows bruised and bloody hued. It’s a miracle, but they don’t notice. Wrapped ’round a fire built high for warmth.Smokey musk stings eyes alight with flames whilelaughter rides the wind and winds…
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What’s left
When the gulfsbetween youand everything elsebecome absoluteand the terrorsof the inconsequentialare unsheathed,silly little things.here is how it should be.how it once was.perhapshow it could be,could have been.When it endswill it be enough to haveknownwhat was possible?It will have to beIt will have to be.silly littlethings This poem was published in the PEN America Zine –…
Robert Hiraeth
Stories, thoughts, and the spaces between.
Robert Hiraeth 