PARKER STEVENS

Gentle

Dawn is cresting over thorned peaks.
Its ever-extending reach
Searching out the world’s edges.

Gold glistens off serrated sides,
Hewn from vibrant, liberating winds,
Coming to rest on bloodied stone.
Meadows of sand shimmering iridescent.
Rock once great and mighty and whole
Now severed, soiled, and brought low.

Helios watches from his blue-draped balcony
As aqueous crests and troughs turn to tragedy.
Each side amasses, brother faces brother
For a brief moment, silence settles in the valley between,
Only to shatter like a liar’s smile,
Both sides rushing to their death.

Life glows a hardy green in the face of dawn,
Though it tries to shade itself in fine vines and velvet leaves.
Its inhabitants see the forest’s farce
With droves of nettle, bushels of thorns, and fields of stinging ivy.
It will never truly hide its jaded heart.

Misted windows turn to pale amber,
Morning light fermenting them to champagne.
Pale yellow light spills from their panes,
Pooling together to illuminate metal posts and washed sheets.
The champagne-tinted light settles down beside you,
Fingering the fringe of your hair bemusedly,
Surprised to find a miracle,
Something truly gentle.

 

The Success of Men

A tender tongue, a dancing snake
The taste of decay, the heart of a star
It is ever given, but ought not be taken

To those who take, their own they reap
Prometheus, his stomach unsewn, ever weeps
The lesson was his, the punishment given
The success of men is a present
It is ever given, but ought naught be taken