kiss upon my face
The dim lights beam above the icy roads,
while midnight shines its blackish hue of smalt;
I knew the Northern ranges' nightly codes,
the dissonance of hurting stars and vault.
Above the melted ice, the sky's grimace,
has sent the birds to emigrate for life;
some scattered neon lights and epigraphs,
advert with street signs like a cutting knife.
Thus, propagated are, at random thrown,
while sky descended on the station's ell,
escaping light, the landscape is windblown
and Greyhound buses round me, roaring dwell.
The Abyssos has opened to engulf
my stare and thoughts; she aggregates above;
the windy howl resounds alike a wolf
who greets this season with his wrong octave.
Her form reflects above, where light bedims,
immense her depth that prunes with freezing wit,
bequeathing darkness on the decks and brims,
becomes the destination of our grit.
I saw her in that depth, a symbol grave;
have never known who listened, laughed or wept;
but knew the swirl of flakes on my enclave,
the nimbus quilt that covered those who slept.
The trees became the landscape's odd gendarmes,
and thin, persistent drops my features trace,
their cold and faithful call my soul becharms,
with its relentless kiss upon my face.
The dim lights beam above the icy roads,
while midnight shines its blackish hue of smalt;
I knew the Northern ranges' nightly codes,
the dissonance of hurting stars and vault.
Above the melted ice, the sky's grimace,
has sent the birds to emigrate for life;
some scattered neon lights and epigraphs,
advert with street signs like a cutting knife.
Thus, propagated are, at random thrown,
while sky descended on the station's ell,
escaping light, the landscape is windblown
and Greyhound buses round me, roaring dwell.
The Abyssos has opened to engulf
my stare and thoughts; she aggregates above;
the windy howl resounds alike a wolf
who greets this season with his wrong octave.
Her form reflects above, where light bedims,
immense her depth that prunes with freezing wit,
bequeathing darkness on the decks and brims,
becomes the destination of our grit.
I saw her in that depth, a symbol grave;
have never known who listened, laughed or wept;
but knew the swirl of flakes on my enclave,
the nimbus quilt that covered those who slept.
The trees became the landscape's odd gendarmes,
and thin, persistent drops my features trace,
their cold and faithful call my soul becharms,
with its relentless kiss upon my face.
© 10-17-2011, G. Venetopoulos, All rights reserved
(Iambic pentameter)