Through the dry days of January, when the wind whistled sullenly southward and caught its tongue on the frosty lamposts of silvered trees, I sat. Silently. Worlds of wisdom unfurled like the memory of summer buds, and I trapped the soft whiff of roses and rot as time bloomed his angry fist, finally letting me stroke his palm. When darkness drips like tears into closed eyes and solidifies like diamonds looking back to coal, the spheres of galaxies gently, gently spin into the green and pink petals (pollen--cosmic dust) that push softly, so softly agaist the crust of winter.
Man, there is power in your words. Excellent imagery, i liked the part about the angry fist opening (but really i loved the whole thing).
I heart your writing, as ya know well... agree with the other comments, and had thought the same thing as Pagansrule concerning the action... I tried reading it in the present tense (instead of past) and that had a kinda cool spin to it, so if you're looking into any changes, maybe consider that? egad, that's beautiful
Beautifully written. I was also very touched by this poem of yours. Good luck with your future poetry!
