Friday, August 21, 2009

Poetry Year August 21

Winged victory, with face long smashed and forgotten
towers over us, as ruin does over forgotten plain.
Worn down by wishes, with compromise besotten,
the city on a hill, is lost under the rain.

A rain that falls upon us, and stings like acid on high,
a darker day is dawning, a sunrise dusk is nigh.
In distance the towers, made of glass and pain,
reflect the new colors mourning, counting up the gain.

Etched by ages are the marks upon her feathers,
remnants of the turning weathers,
Monsoon, tide, and storms that have writ,
their comment on our earthly wit.

But still she stands there, her shadow reminds,
imperfectly, our triumphs leave behind designs.

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