ink5000 ~ deviantart.com
He holds sun in one hand,
moon – in another,-
lighted up candles,
to find rushed off
yesterday;
prodigal vagabond
settled in the tavern
grieving yet smiling
with tears…
Suddenly he roars
in the ceiling,
(making the gravel
outside to sound
a treasure like),
followed by longing
whisper…
and we learn: there are
no two lives alike,
‘there is no prophet
in our homeland…’
Sunday's Whirligig 7
Read more at: d'Verse Meeting the Bar: Antithesis
