Nothing at present is foreseen.
Everything now is looming.
Within this; our heartrending time,
the stars crawl on hands and knees
from end to end,
inching toward the sun of man.
This arrangement of emptiness mouths
silent consonants in search of vowels
to fill empty words the size of the ocean.
The angels scour the floor of our living,
touching their wings against the waters,
their silence louder than tyranny.
It will be at the liquid birth of God
that the reverberations spring forth,
seeping across a new humanity.
© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman
