August 7, 2010
By KipKlark GOLD, Wellesley, Massachusetts
KipKlark GOLD, Wellesley, Massachusetts
13 articles 0 photos 0 comments

Who are we, but winters washed
Across glass canvas
Over hot red leaves
And to a certain point,

What we do, in dying breeze
Pass through towns and echoes
Serenade the birds and skies
With the freedom in our

Try the doors we never find
The conspiracies we keep alive
The secrets in our hearts
All the lies which set us

What silver nets catch greedy souls
And melt them all to ash
How quickly do our blunt ends come
Which forget the places we are

Who are we, but shining herald
Passing over seas and sailors
Rocky ridges in the light
Striking through the pit of

Frozen in our frigid throne
What chaotic threads we weave
With a stubborn glare the silence rings
In its beauty of all

What flames and prints we leave behind
On burnt and jagged trails
Brilliance, what I couldn't see
Left alone in the dark are

How we fall, to treachery
Stealing breath with another
Straying from the dear and kind
On this battlefield, what one can

When we give up our innocence
For an all-consuming warmth
What desperate struggle leads us to sin
How infrequently we look

What prize we give to fame and glory
Each tragedy and dramatic fall
Hold the false and rich aloft
How hardened ideals turn

Who are we but skipping stones
To glide despite a greater weight
In a sinking sort of flight
Happenings, caught in passing

What are we but life
Who are we but us
Where are we but here
How are we through thought
Why are we, not clear

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