Monday, April 11, 2011

The mild warmth.

The eyes glance immobile,
Though the glare speeds
Its pink and undelegated mile.

As he approaches the light
Swarms visit the charring birth--
Shape vanishes in hungriest white.

If to count you could know
Count all the windows
In his dreary room, so

As the bent shoulder
Of the younger burns
There is due reverence--

If not envy, in the elder.

Mild warmth falls--and pardon my abrupt sidetrack,
Convinced upon the sweep of the verdant span.
It thrives, though the animal is always held back.

It suffers its each counted track.

No comments: