Gene Isis

Gnarled branches
extend towards
an empty heaven.

What of this life?

The blood rose,
the notes of wind,
the spires of cities,
the broken windows
of our spirit;

we are carrion
with a flare.

A blood rose on a white sheet.
A spot of matter on a hollow universe.

What of this life?

with all its' beaming tresses
and concrete rainbows of hope?

 

Reviews

[Morgan Storms]

Nice poem. I think it was very well written.