When morning’s murk remains for far too long,

the sun becomes a lighter shade of gloam;

When earth can’t hear the moonlight’s languid song

through static plumes of dampening misty foam;

When sleepy, fog-draped hills begin to blur

their edges in amorphous mounds of grey,

then like, when without glass, your eyes obscure

each color, shape, and life within the day.


A body cannot wake, nor truly rest

if all the daylight hours are but a shift

in some unending grey-scale twilight jest,

which dulls all borders, floats your world adrift.

So catch your cast-off timber into flame

or risk each hour’s obliterating same.

1 comment
  1. Mike said:

    A cinereal sonnet laden with leaden images. A beautifully crafted call to action that deserves to succeed in doing just that. Well done poet.

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