The postulates of bliss are rich in combat.
This fight calms down in its arrhythmic sobbing.
Two camps, enwombed in shaggy darkness, count dead...
They hone their swords, hearts stop to bleed with throbbing.
Foes’ lines, blue veins on maps, were cut… Impounded
by Moon, crows rub it in. The field stays stubby.
Embraced to death, rank-lost, and curse-surrounded
both sides give up. The sky is knocked and knobby.
Young time was bright and now he looks nearsighted,
on guard with blazing in a deep enigma,
still forest for inferno arsen creatures.
Regrets and hope remain here uninvited.
This line is taken over by the stigma,
where blades are grassy on the mounded future.
March 25, 2011
Sonnet xxviii
© Copyright: Юрий Лазирко, 2011
Свидетельство о публикации №111032508781
Свидетельство о публикации №111032508781
Рецензии