Dawn

Feeling that auguring horizon,
of a sinful aurulent hue.
Oh! Sing to that rorulent dawn!
On those tawny-peppery,
shimmering fields of corn.
Licking the caramel drips,
and resting quixotically on,
the straw-laden earth.
With a mite of waxen puffs,
on that laudanum too flaxened,
I soar into an ecstastical dizziness,
so palpably fine!

I sing to that dawn.
Realising with a painful tinge,
those pieces of kisses,
are now a thorny throng;
that golden streaks of tears,
arrive in a wanton waft again.
I sing to that dawn.

Is that dawn an illusion?
Or never coming?
I sing.

cuRRent...jer


  ¶ 6:02 pm