The Death of Silk Shirts and the Coming of Winter
yes, it seems that the
flower petals and the golden leaves are losing grip,
smoothly falling down
upon the rocky asphalt.
the radiator whistles to
the tune of teardrops filling puddles;
pools where the lonely flies gasps for air.
the short, short-lived summer; the peaches,
the cherries, the apricots and the
queen butterflies have gone into hiding
and have left the realm of this
existence; remains of heat and joyful beams
of light have blended with the
shadows and the shade of the
broken silver trees.
a peek of torsos, under the thin,
thin veil of the white,
of the red silk shirts;
golden amulets perched
around their necks.
the shirts of silk, now,
nailed to the crucifix of time,
layer upon layer upon layer
upon ______
and the wound, the pain, and
the angst, and the fear
of the long, long time;
the exodus of seasons, the
cyclic existence that slowly
disappears with every
passing hour, passing minute,
passing second.
and the great sickness, the great
panic fever settling within the
constricted veins of the city
and the hearts and minds of the
passerby shivering at the rising
tides of the wind and the sight
of keys locking the gates of salvation,
the gates of beer-drinking havens
where all go to forget,
to forget all of this, or
at least
get through it.
yes, so it seems.
