Our four sable eyes, fat with sleep,
from vivid dreams that made them weep,
slowly rose to life newborn
to a silent summer morn.
Our four arms stirred from the core,
like driftwood on the shore.
The night had slumped away.
It's black, foreboding form of play
had left us drawn-
slack, and unprepared for dawn.
But there was life yet in our bones.
Hope. Desire. Will.
We had not yet died,
though still.
And we had not yet
given Death our parts,
to work with
in his rigid arts.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 11:59 PM UTC
Our four sable eyes, fat with sleep,
from vivid dreams that made them weep,
slowly rose to life newborn
to a silent summer morn.
Our four arms stirred from the core,
like driftwood on the shore.
The night had slumped away.
It's black, foreboding form of play
had left us drawn-
slack, and unprepared for dawn.
But there was life yet in our bones.
Hope. Desire. Will.
We had not yet died,
though still.
And we had not yet
given Death our parts,
to work with
in his rigid arts.
Request permission to use this poem