The Coming

The Coming short poem

Photo by HeeseRong

Believe when drunken butterflies fuel: a
burst of iridescence over furred fields
where the blue tongue of anemones
leer; and fever of shadows sting. Trees adorn
their pristine bloom, rapt and oozing orange
sap beneath the provident music of birds, that
seem in well-churned skies something like
troughed blood to freshen upon first-light; a
mirage, if mirage was to be recognised
in its overt density through the remote glass,
young roots of oleander foam with our sharp tears.

Fierce as prophets, cleansed not perished in flame,
draped in the fine splendours of their androgynous
youth, the forsaken outlanders unearthed, come
praised, stylized, reputedly indestructible, assisted
by various auguries toward an imminent fortune
where common man is left nothing but the shaken air of his ruin.

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