Morning is the pale herald
A thin boned figure carrying a bowl of water
It pours light over the threshold
As if washing the world clean of its old names
Every drop is a quiet command
Rise
Shed
Begin again
Noon is the iron sigil
A blazing coin hammered into the sky
It brands the day with its judgment
Pressing truth into the skin
Until all disguises melt
Under its emblem nothing hides
Even the shadows kneel
Night is the veiled keeper
A vast animal made of velvet and breath
It circles the house three times
Before settling at my feet
Guarding the secrets I cannot speak aloud
Its darkness is not absence
But ink
The place where new stories draft themselves
Before daring to be born
Morning baptizes
Noon consecrates
Night anoints
And I move through their rituals
Like a pilgrim with three masters
Learning that a life is not lived in hours
But in the symbols that claim us
-
Author:
Anthony Hanible (
Offline) - Published: March 31st, 2026 02:33
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 6
- Users favorite of this poem: Anthony Hanible, sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments2
I have always been intrigued with symbols and this poem takes that to another level weaving them into poetry. It seems almost a symbol itself in its ritual like laying out of its lines and setting forth its symbols. Very nicely done
Powerful work.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.