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Saturday, January 10, 2009

Battlefields

poetry
is an open space,
but you made it
a battlefield,

a tournament to rectify
the damage done
to the honours of dignity,

with you, love is
just words that joust
for warring colours,

saints and kings
lie defeated
in the broken frame of fables,

while you worry about
the unconquered pinnacles
of the heart

and squander time,
like a feast uneaten
on the grandest table,

tomorrow comes without us,
the darkness
carries away the sun,

as understanding dawns;
this is our last day
that you have won.

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© CC License 2004-14. Unless otherwise stated all poetry, prose and art are the original work of the blog owner.