an old man stands on a bloodless altar,
silver spades gleaming in his eyes.
he parts his hands,
raising his fists to the defeated sun,
as if he, himself, holds the string to heaven,
or can starve the stars from the sky.

yet like wolves–silent, loyal, waiting–
with sunken eyes,
and faces stained from mud and shadows,
we watch him,
making his offering,
giving the sun as his only sacrifice.


One response »

  1. This is good post. Very aptly written.

    According to Maya Angelou,
    “The idea is to write it so that people hear it and it slides through the brain and goes straight to the heart.”

    Best Wishes for all your future posts.
    Looking forward to reading all of them 🙂

    If you ever feel like, check this out :

    I’d love your feedback on this 🙂

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