Friday, January 20, 2017

Day One

January 20, 2017
By Hannah Six

Among the darkening
crowds picking out forgotten
thorns, unravelling their web
of truth and beauty,
a single thread knots and
doubles back on itself
again and again. Cold with fear
that shimmers like sand
or water, they smile.

Red and black,
damp and cool as Satan's circus
silent below the long, gray
grizzled clouds,
their hearts yearn
for what has already been
folded away. Each raises
a rigid arm, conducting
a secret symphony of suffering.

Shielded from shattered
promises soft as celadon,
Mystery weeps, recalling
an unimaginable sweetness,
as he, tiny flame dull as brass,
winds her veil,
his forked tongue sharp
and bittersweet—
a snail lodged against her ribs.

(c) 2017, Hannah Six