by Timothy Reaves

Created on: January 26, 2010

Piercing the pixilated blue

The precocious sun

Attempts to rouse the slumberer

Of lips, cold and gray, pursed as one.

To no avail, it tarries still,

Man’s keeper, at the windowsill,

With hope of seeing blue again.

For long ago did blue become

A shade the less of brilliant hue,

And stony is the temperament

Of the orbits’ view of red.

And bitter, sour is the taste

Of the cavernous inner peace

That whispers to the sun from where

A sonnet would have once begun.

And pale and plastered, full of holes –

Worms do choke on such foul disease –

Is the gaze that meets the sun.

Then finally awake, a hand

Forces it to be undone.

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