The Weather
No one sees the weatherA seamtress ghost sits alone
Pale indigo gleam in a broken
Pain window,
Tying intricate knots, knitting a sheet
Of The Night
Roosts in naked threads of lightning
Vanes sew the see sawing winds
Into worthless fabrics
Too dear for a kings disdain,
Reach across a timepiece desert
Conceal burnt matches in a memory painting
Lost in lists of weary eyes watch leaden lids close
Up, no one sees the weather.
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
Read 853 times
Written on 2016-06-02 at 22:12
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