TRANSITION
At dawn,
He's the swaddling infant
Golden as the fiery orb
Grasping at the shrivelled nipple.
By noon
Eyes misty with faith
He's the daydreamer,
Nurturing dreams in his bosom.
At dusk,
Face grim as the moon,
He's the grey-haired, philosophizing
That hope is but a morage .
Kingsley Charles
He's the swaddling infant
Golden as the fiery orb
Grasping at the shrivelled nipple.
By noon
Eyes misty with faith
He's the daydreamer,
Nurturing dreams in his bosom.
At dusk,
Face grim as the moon,
He's the grey-haired, philosophizing
That hope is but a morage .
Kingsley Charles
Comments
Post a Comment
Your thoughts please.