In An Old School Room
Bleeding through the panels, the sunshine filters
Into the long closed room, now opened;
And blends itself with an ancient, painful dream
Forgotten, or in deep sleep under
The peeling blanket of hollow time drops.
Years ago, the same sun had
Burnt dry the innocent dew-pearls
In the bosom of a newly blossomed flower.
The room had held its first pain-drop,
And went to sleep beneath nighted senses.
After long sunny days scorched, clouds darkened,
Deep storms wrenched, thunders convulsed,
Rains overwhelmed the flower for years,
The room has unveiled itself in the hour of sunset.
Its long hidden tear-mist sharpens into
A violent, ruthless blade of unseen agony
That inflicts itself on the greyed flower
To absorb till the last drop of its heart’s blood,
To shatter, to smash, to exhaust it.
Alas, the tree-angel who has held it for years,
Now would hurl away it, in negligence or loathing,
Too hateful to let it sleep at his feet.
Without anyone to cry for it,
The departed flower would fade away in
The stream of cruel, unforgiving time
Visit our Facebook Page : Little Authors | Facebook