On the horizon
a blood red dawn.
Birds silent.
No expectations.
No night to morn,
to cry about.
Moving above the line
in her deep red gown.
Nothing to define,
Just awesomeness lingering.
She birthing herself,
saying nothing at all.
O that i wish
a picture to form
a poem to write itself
heralding in the day.
But no,
nothing.
Nothing and nothing
is her song
her dance
her passage
her birth-right
re-aligning shafts of time.
Blood Red Dawn
2010 ©