Sorrow

Maudlin man drums to the ceiling fan

poor, poor, doomed and dragged. Austere, contoured

face that is ugly only

with’ thick blood smeared over its eyes

to hide what sorrow finds

deliciously still. He cannot weep

for you, nor for

wet panes, and neither more

the sprawling lands and lanes of leaving

cold frames void of will. He kneads

his gnarled knuckle on the bone of oak.

Nothing moves in rain. The skies

bleed through the rafters, into his veins that

twine, convulse, rattle,

in tracts with treasures seeking, pleading,

keeping beat to battle’s bane: and

Serpentine and grave, and grown and grey. To break

in flood finally, to spill

his cavernous soul in gushing streams

of bright’ing black, as of handsomely

gold’ing evergreens.

07/14/2015

Johan & Nyström, Helsinki

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Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2018

atazargarof@gmail.com

BC, Canada