Starting in a low-down,
Ripped off, postage stamp-perforated
Corner of the evening sky,
Little solar spark becomes cloud-forest fire;
Conflagration spreading higher, faster than
A well-shod, hard-spurred thoroughbred can run.
Magnificent, towering malachite-light,
Bruised -petal bloom clouds
Gorgon-head electric snakes
That whip and punish wind-carded oaks
That cower like galley-rower slaves.
In keeping with Greek tragedy
Sun-flare mother that conceived this bastard
Is dramatically murdered,
Face forced behind grey barrier,
Below suffocating horizon.
Chains of thunder dirge low skies and
Tears of bullet-bodied, bronzed rain
Saturate the roads that
Once joined heaven and earth
While we stagger and bawl helplessly
Beneath the ash and orange ember aftermath.
- Saturday Poem: ‘Dirge of the Three Queens’ by William Shakespeare (theliterarysisters.wordpress.com)