The Beau's Hunting
The sun seared the fine fringes
Of their shadows, a smoke transpired
They were burning an inferno
To thaw the thinning ice below
The swaying of their wobbly soles
The frost bit and sense was bereaved
Behind the intoxicated blear
They fell, but to where?
In the carnage of ephemeral Sundays?
Or in the concealed demons to lambaste?
Should I alert the armory?
Or should I pry harder?
Into the nights of the hunters
And learn the hunger game they play
And eloquently morph into an answer
For holes and questions
In the chest of veracity.
poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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