Like Blood From A Prayer Wheel

Birds perched on telephone lines,
like winos on the street corner,
witness the arrival
of a nervous daybreak.

Clouds, windborn prophets
in the cathedral of the sky,
tickle the upper edges
of my vision
while the taste of green tea
tickles my tongue.
I stare past the panoramic 
glare on my window,
seeing the waves of the Pacific
on the far horizon,
and I watch traffic flow,
watch the light of the sun
glint from off the metal
of a hundred automobiles
as they rumble towards
the grey steel metropolis
across the snaking,
mammoth dragon's spine
of the bridge across the bay,
and I am
wishing,
dreaming,
wondering,
feeling
a sense of musing
incompleteness
as a silent prayer,
a psalm from the Id,
seizes my lips,
unbidden.

I am drawn towards a tomorrow
I cannot hope to anticipate.

While the sun still shines,
the first cold drops of rain,
spray from a severed artery,
begin their sacrificial
freefall
onto the window's glass.

Above the road and sea,
the prophets of the cathedral
have begun their weeping...
***********************************

Image courtesy of Dreamstime Photographic Stock:  "DreamsPack" by Melgama, dreamstime_1138017.jpg

Comments

[Robert]

Enjoyed.

[aurora]

An effective collection and expression of moods.

[Felicia]

Above the road and sea,
the prophets of the cathedral
have begun their weeping...

Shivers!