Saturday, November 04, 2006


He fled into the powder-fluff halcyon
stark and bold as the raven,
spreading shadowy mirrors of his darkness
about the land -
chasing the dart of angels,
tucked deep into that bit of blue
that seemed forever disappearing;
unattainable, as mirages
or tips of the Ottenburg
shrouded in ancient fogs.

Only forgotten ancestors,
dip their brittle limbs
into welcomed moist cavities
the black worm earth beckoning -

to sleep and ruminate
with the decomposition of time.
How tender and gentle,
directed to dire anticipation was he,
and driven by some vapid quest…
when all the glamorous day had eluded
he who believes that the currency
of status - is

@Nick Zegarac 2006 (all rights reserved).