Qaseem Poetry

It was silent as winter, with the occasional breeze.
Impelling the clouds to pass,
Wildfire conquering immortality,
An omen to the trees--storm.
The leaves, a reminder of death
Were blown past like a tumble weed in a wasteland.
Or dancers in a ballet.

The leafless branches reached down
Their skeleton hands to clutch at their flesh, too late,
Their souls were free from the hands from which they grew.
Free from life.

Few sounds were heard.
The tapping of the dancers on the ground.
The lamentation of the titans for their souls.
The wind pushed,
But the bodies of the leviathans never faltered
They were the graceful swaying of arms,
Like mortals when they walked.

As the pale moon sprung from out the clouds,
It threw the eclipse of the colossus?
The purgatory of light and dark,
Concealing the mirror of the sky.

A sudden chill, like November, washed over the air.
The clouds expanded across the darkness
A sea of braids cleansing the moon,
She believed herself to be a nebula,
A ghostly ring encircling her,
Crimson following.

The moon herself was bleeding.
The scarlet was proceeded by a sickly yellow luminosity.
All encompassed by the black-blue ocean,
Imitating the night.

Jealousy was beginning to surface in the coldness.
Golden orbs shone throughout the blackness.
Walls of clouds that were broken by a hammer;
Perhaps Thor?s or maybe Zeus? lightning,
Snapping the clouds with vengeance.
The moon so bright within
Jealousy, it lit up the sails.
She seemed so separate, the moon,
A different painting.

Blindingly bright,
The night was no longer sable,
But velvety cerulean.
So brilliant the ships passing over did not block its gaze.

Poet: Kim Bennett