A poet, to be sure.

A Knight’s Castle

Wanton lovers in the crispy light of the moon
Spores of the glowing liquid grow mold on their bodies.
They play with the grass,
Swaying loftily in the cruel wind
Who is bitter.
Bitter with the thought of an endless gust
An eternity spent guzzling oxygen into a transparent body,
And blowing it out of a gaping jaw.
The trees grow concerned,
their wiry limbs cast about bending and bowing
At the mercy of the winds whim.
Unconcerned, the lover’s hearts are a-fire with broiling blood
They gaze into the pond
Frogs and serpents run amok
And the water froths and boils
Like their souls, melding into one another
Like the storm timidly peeking around boisterous clouds
Like the gargoyle, laying in wait, seemingly held back by its stony anatomy…..
                                                      

                                                       -Jorah Browgen

~ by craspoissusurrant on April 20, 2007.