Dawn

A golden moon sways inside the endless reach of broken china stars whose wishes read like musical notes, risen from the dawn of time.

Darkness grows into a thick bleed of hard purple varnish, with lonely silver pinpricks of the ancient times roaming hopelessly, like lost lovers.

This celestial ballet is a tangle of poets and rock songs whose asymmetry is a revolution of math equations making babies with angry rhymes.

Serendipity pulses and bubbles in this magical pond. The restless calm before the uprising, when the might of darkness will battle with fire.

Cobwebbed stars shout in their best mighty and pray in their best kneel and get tangled up in storms whose crush is lying in ravenous wait.

Vermilion colored pebbles cobble themselves together in serrated regiments, tasked with the merciless plunge.

Stars weeping as if bent spokes on a broken down bicycle whose journey is a wheezing, desperate wreck of memories.

The sky heaves and swirls as if there is any doubt as to the outcome of its rebellion. Its tears turn to flickers and lashes and then finally, to smoke.

Black vespers of those cosmic scrolls float like ash across the moody canvas. Violet dregs to plush magenta to roasted crimson.

Plump slices of orange drip from this frosted ceiling as the moon runs away and the sky opens up to birdsong echoes and velvet cream clouds.

And dreams paint the newborn sky in sunflower drenched amulets that streak the racing heartbeat of that orange pulp with blessings.

The wind tastes of mercury and wine, with wrinkles of mystery and fate collapsing in a tranquil embrace with the ransom of time.

Morning dew gives way to plush, the chill recedes to a warm and faithful glow and miracles dress themselves in different arrangements now.

Daylight sings its cursive song as steeples sing to blackbirds. As a fresh coat of paint comforts an old house. As stained glass speaks of truth.

Dawn has arrived.

 

 

25 thoughts on “Dawn

  1. B,

    See? Even John doesn’t dare add anything more than to tell you that you have some fine style. I, however, do tend to go on and gush about what you write so, I won’t hold back.
    This was beautiful. Anyone who reads this will want to find a loved one (or not), settle in a comfy spot and watch the dawn arrive. They will have your words in the back of their mind and they will marvel at how well you expressed the transformation.
    Thought it is most difficult to come up with my favourite line/stanza, this one resonated with me: “Serendipity pulses and bubbles in this magical pond. The restless calm before the uprising, when the might of darkness will battle with fire.” Gorgeous.
    My attempts at poetry are… I dunno… but I do know they have been inspired.

    Lotsa love,
    Q

    Liked by 1 person

    • Q,

      I am heartened (always) to provide any inspiration I might. And it’s tit for beautiful tat, as you are some mighty fine inspiration as well.
      And I wondered, loudly to myself in this instance, what I might capture from the memories my brain attempts to retrieve as far as sunrises are concerned. And it’s funny but my sense of smell and sound are more vivid than the actual imagery that I’m trying to express. But I think this allows me to forget how much I’m struggling (As I did with this piece) and just immerse myself in a particular morning I summon up.
      A favorite line?! You are too much of a good thing, but I’m not complaining in the least. And your favorite line sat quite well with yours truly, which ain’t no small thing seeing as how I usually write something and then curse. A lot.
      Now who’s rambling?

      And your poetry is divine m’dear. And your style is strong and velvety to the senses. And you know that struggle, and you probably invoke many of the same curse words.

      MWAH!

      B

      Liked by 1 person

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