Darkness. . .

So the orange sun
Of our once heady love
Has slid past
The gray arch
Of our everyday horizon.

And now a vacuous sky
Screeches at me
Like an anguished cry
Of a beast slain
By a butcher’s machete.

I turn my back
On the graying memories
And let the dusk
Settle in cavernous chimneys
Bellowing smoke
Like funeral pyres
Of the day
That has just met its end.

Softly the darkness shrouds
Trampling twigs and leaves
That you fondly buried
In your diary of poetry
And good deeds.

But I draw blood from eyes
Seek redemption for
Sunken hollowed cheeks
As I stare at the reflection
That the mirror throws –
A body of a poet;
A soul of a whore.

© Dan Husain
June 17, 2005