Amaranthine

At first, it is like the sound of a drummer as he begins to tire.
It is the sound of a bird who has found the branch.
The pulse slows.

Daylight hurls itself in low circles upon the horizon, and raw winds rasp.
The pulse stops, and the clock weeps in expected mourning for its creation.
The world takes no note, for it has fallen into dormancy itself.

There is a hex in the pond that bears no waves; in the fire that leaves no ash.
The world in white casts a capturing stare.
Desire ripples on the surface of meticulous perfection.

The sun shatters the ice of January illusions; grounds thaw, rivers flow into the sea.
Feeble and tepid eyelids open, to glimpse a silent rebirth.
The heartbeat begins again.

© 2008 Andrew David King

Amaranthine

andrewdavidking

Joined January 2008

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