POEM: No Time To Grieve

I feel the rumble of the clouds—
they jar like the recoil of a whip;
They crack the frame along the path
which the lightening fragments its own motion.
I see the light, forming like the stir
of raucous rivers mirroring the swift
vibration of stars jangling
in their haloed coronas,
somehow the sun still comes out and
draws in on this ceaseless lament;
And it’s rays rush down like little child soldiers,
errant and petty—
the world seems to be unbecoming
from Generations to Revelations in seconds,
And then, I realize,
that I’m grieving for the flower of life
When the forest of aesthetic is burning.


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