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  • KENNETH N COOK

    SongSoptok | 2/10/2015 |




    VOICES

    A voice is calling to me
    like a flaming flute,
    melting the ice
    of the ancient glaciers
    and turning to fire
    the frigid winter air.
    My ears tremble
    from that chilling sound
    as my eyes flare and weep
    hot drops of crimson.
    A voice is calling my name
    like the haunting howl
    of a dying wolf,
    echoing through the night sky
    and rippling across
    the green foam
    of a thousand dead ponds.
    My head is ablaze
    from that bone-numbing sound
    while my heart pounds and bangs
    like a hammer of iron.
    A voice is calling to me
    like a drum of death,
    smashing the mountains flat
    and crushing my soul
    into grey dust,
    blown away in the wind
    with only a whisper
    trailing softly behind.




    THE TOUCH

    The lemony sunbeams
    begin to leak under
    the door and lighten
    the icy windows.
    The morning has arrived
    and my head starts
    to rise from the thick,
    murky darkness of sleep.
    A touch, as light as mist
    and as soft as down
    sends a sweet shiver
    rippling up my back,
    as she sighs like the coo
    of a mourning dove.
    The buttery rays of the sun
    cover the chilly room
    with a blanket of warmth
    as she laughs into
    the golden-striped air
    with the song of a lark
    and touches me once again,
    sending me to a place
    where the dawn breaks eternally
    and the sunshine coats the sky
    with ribbons of amber.


    THE DRUM

    At the heart of the world
    there beats a drum.
    Slow as a funeral dirge,
    it bangs out a silent rhythm.
    The sound echoes through
    the long countless ages,
    yet few can hear its fatal beat,
    though all keep time.
    For the sun will end its fire,
    the stars will blink out
    and the Earth will one day
    be a lifeless rock
    adrift in the cold, black silence.
    Yet the endless rhythm
    of that deadly drum
    will beat on in mute indifference
    long after the world
    is but a dusty memory,
    lost in a forgotten realm
    of eternal darkness.


    [Kenneth N Cook]


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