Visions Under The Stitched Skies

--Visions Under The Stitched Skies--

The sky is stitched around with the disdain

for inner self does not intend to wane.

Pitch clouds are plain and do not try to feign

as their blood once soaked through the fingers.

There was no wrong at all in condemnation,

no spite, injustice hidden or damnation,

and even no avails and devastation.

For years silence's being let to linger.

Of crooked branches of an oak tree the loom

is bowing down, but not crave a linking boon

from a wet soil and the hollow tired moon

which turned out knowing not the way to cure.

Eternal void is sunk in contemplation

hence has no hope to reach the saturation

and hangs as non-existent installation.

The aims of it are never truthful, never pure.

In the enveloped thrilling blinking gloom

beyond the utter layer an unsteady croon

is fading slowly to forthcoming - to its doom -

without an opposition or a slightest quiet peeve.

The wind entangled in a thicket of a cane

is howling, is no more the one that could be sane.

And as the symbol of intentions were in vain

a human form is lying twisted on the dried leaves. (c) 2015 Dust of Reason