(to all who try to accept life, even the pain)

Against the low-hung skies

Dust on the surface -
colourless the thought,
no more for eyes sound
which like deeper ears
hears us who cannot rise,
alone the inner voice
out in the open,
charcoal of despair,
deep lines it scrawls
from darkness
in the air,

cuts back dimensions,
polished back to shine.
With open eyes we'll rise
against the low-hung skies
where disbelief is glistening
on all the breaking points
of failure. See
how in this slow light
all becomes spirit.
Into each other
we mature and grow.

Poetry by Scharlie Meeuws
Read 416 times
Written on 2006-06-10 at 18:56

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Zoya Zaidi
Another nice poem!