The Fog

A poem published by Mojave Heart Review. Original link was here (no longer valid).

If the link is broken, you can read it below.

 

The Fog

Ruffle-feathered sparrow spears the sky
to flee his hide and leave the night.

Clap of wings echo in the cold, fresh air –
shadowed slasher of the silenced sundown.

Bang reverberates throughout, bounces off the trees
rattles through the thickening air;

A muffled fall follows in the grey haze
of the dawn’s drawn drabbed curtains.

Devil’s umbrella taints nature’s wonders
into an ugly canvas of shadows.

It lulls the forest into snooze, tames
its beauty; sucks the colours and the soul

of what the Gods created. A devil
s scheme; heavy, stifling air of suffocation

drowns the blossoms, blooming and blue,
bursting with beauty; stomps over the scurry of joyous ants.

Murky blanket thrown over-
flawed, spoilt beauty of creation.

a drop a drop a drop a thump a clap
slashing through the misty fog,

a blanket of horror pierced by the Holy water from above.
Gods crack their bolting whips to awaken

the earth against the siege of darkness.
Legions of angels rise to war

to punish, and, to save
the butchered beauty of a blemished smog,

the jewelled green on a floating massive rock.
The cries of martyrs tear

the clouds, rip the fabric of the sinners, until
the net is worn, bashed to torn

flown away with a receding storm.
Brave day returns to toil, spineless

creature of daunting thoughts,
a disloyal troop in a global war,

of good and evil, never to be won.
The fog’s been banished, the balance

of day and night restored
(a moment of mercy, a cry of resolution)

but how soon will this feeble truce shall
come to the swift, brief conclusion?


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