Poetry

We Scale the Wounded Skies

We scale the wounded skies                                                                                      Eyes carved in iron                                                                                                                        The red ruins of Myron                                                                                                               Where are we going?

The moon, in silver tears                                                                                                                    Like harbour nights                                                                                                                       The black stars outshining                                                                                                        Where are we going?

The earth, the weatherbell                                                                                         Chipped porcelain days                                                                                                    Touchstones in the haze                                                                                                             Where are we going?

The sea, the salted air                                                                                                           Beneath the surface thinning                                                                                                          Back to the  beginning                                                                                                                   Where are we going.