Gray Skies
Gray mornings underneath
the plummeting of silver beads
is a cold seraph sitting upon
his celestial wings of fire
shedding petals, caviling for silence
willowing in a soft psychastenia
and of steel-bruised dreams
and the avalanche of his realm
he lost the tangled threads
of his adamant musing
but the heavens cannot speak
and unravel his constellations
without quelling his mirrors
and his vapid etude pounced
like a chain of spears from
the vaults of his commiserating
as he vied against his flaming aeons
and become the mausoleum inside
the bones of the gray morning skies.
poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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