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I Won’t Talk About The Weather

There’s a tranquility only found before the dawn. The night is still covered by its blanket of dream.  The birds whistle the first words, low yet understood.  The air is crisp. It is clean. The lamps speak in amber, a language all it’s own.  The wind is alive yet reserved.  The rabbits stir the grass, stopping as if the moon fails to illuminate their bushy tails.  There’s wisdom to the emptiness, a fragrant melody, sating, the still yet tired, flesh we carry anonymously.

 

If one listens, the music can be heard.  If one pays attention, an entire world previously unnoticed can be observed.

 

Soft tones of arrival creep amongst the shadows, brilliantly exposing themselves in glimmers and shades.  Here, I could speak upon the loveliness of spring.  Or the words could form an ode to the summer that the months have since become.  Yet, I won’t talk about the weather.  It is unnecessary, as it’s all around our every movement.  It is senseless to repeat, that which is so easily consumed. It is impossible to relate, just how many miracles swirl each moment within the eye.

 

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About hobgoblin2011

I'm a poet and aspiring screenwriter/songwriter with a passion for film, art, photography, philosophy and heavy metal. I love reading, mainly non-fiction, comic books, graphic novels, myth and reference. Family always comes first for me. I'm a proud father to two wonderful pups and two curious cats. I'm also a glutton for punishment aka the life of being a diehard Buffalo Bills and Sabres fan.

2 responses »

  1. monocochlearmutineer

    Very poetically expressed, good sir.

    Reply
  2. Nicely done. A prose poem.

    Reply

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