This is my first poem in a long, long while. Okay, Robert Frost I’m not. But I like words, so I figured I’d set some in motion. You can direct your hate mail or concerns about poetic hackery to sit-on-it.com.
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by Mike Duran
Seasons wash the daily chore
and dance outside the shuttered door,
entwine themselves around the moodâ€”
when pressed to stay, they then elude.
Winter coldness death bespeaks,
parts the veil of spring, to greet
ageless warmth of summersâ€™ peak,
autumns yawn in search of sleep.
Rooted in decomposition,
gorged upon the earthâ€™s attrition;
reconstruct and bend the balance,
twilightâ€™s blossom incandescence.
Souls of clay dissent in vain,
tilted skyward in refrain;
earthen orbit rents the trance
and sweeps them up within the dance.