An original poem.


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darkness flows like ink from the eastern sky,

as if the dark waters from the sea floor

were bleeding into the day. as i lie

and watch a sliver moon hand low before

three medieval stars from india, the

last red disappears from the universe.

few stars dare to break the spell of night. a

legend predicts the breaking of the curse

on a night like this. but i would regret

that. there is a need for shadows without

sources, and skies without orange. the stars

would be lost in the sun's glory. i doubt

venus would appreciate it, and mars

would fade in the light, and we would forget.










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An excerpt from A Chorus of Voices
by Kurt Messick
Dry Bones Press, February 2003