Flash, a bolt so white, the whip,
A crack of dawn, in nights not light.
The dark it sees, as the blind eyes weave.
The mortal memory of pasting breaths.
Exhaled through human flesh.
As if the man who breathed again,
Had light the sky so bleak and dim.
A strike it is, in lanes of sport,
As Gold is giving prayer to man.
The will of it has given all,
Mankind behind all of they're falls.
As keys, that dangle, on a kite.
And ground and gravity takes the fight.
The tree, ignites, the flames they burn.
And earth will have another turn.
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Author:
RSM (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: February 1st, 2026 06:18
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 22
Offline)
Comments2
Do I hear a threat in this poem? It sounds menacing and a bit dark. Well written
This snaps and sparks like lightning over worn streets—images striking, jagged, and alive.
The rhythm jolts the reader, and the sense of inevitable turn carries a quiet, elemental weight.
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