Ouroboros

Night drew down the day’s own weary eyes,
Cool kissed its golden brow
To smooth the furrows lent of Summer’s plough,
Beneath black velvet skies.

Within stout wall’s own darkened bound,
Where lighted lamp did spill,
Amber wash in which all phantoms drowned
Held poised a quivering quill.

Close bent the poet o’er pristine sheet,
Teeth biting at his lip
Until inspired, brought page to meet
His pen’s own ink-borne tip.

Such poignant time and place he felt
Lay heavy on his heart,
His own sad face he now deemed dealt
To guide his new poem’s start:

“Night drew down the day’s own weary eyes,
Cool kissed its golden brow
To smooth the furrows lent of Summer’s plough,
Beneath black velvet skies.”

ouroboros

Clive S. Johnson

Poet for August

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