High Winds
High
winds,
incessant.
I’ll
meet you
where
their currents
become
ice air,
merge
to a
point of compliance.
High
death,
no
escaping.
I’ll
meet you
where
incendiaries
fall
like blank hells,
burn
to a
pitch of obscurity.
High
poetry,
faint
whispering.
I’ll
meet you
where
languages fail,
become
keening,
sigh
their
last rites of oblivion.
Very moving.
ReplyDeleteeloquent, but 'tells it slant'
ReplyDeleteMetaphor, allusion, imagery in this one "tell it slant" yes.
Delete