THE STEGER Prize For Poetry
Revolving clouds of ocean
by Greg Zielske
hinting heavy rhythm,
approach my sky.
A rain storm brewing,
challenges my eyes.
Slouching in your kitchen, I feel the pressure churning,
developing along my future of hopeful atmosphere.
Hope is the dimensional abyss that lets me cry like the clouds.
Layered collections of the once abstract.
Dismembering in force.
As you detain me with brussel sprouts
you tell me what I’m missing;
seemingly sinister clouds encircle,
because of my not listening.
But whose ears are huddled
in hooded caves,
under gothic umbrellas?
Without the rain
nothing grows.
The air would always taste the same.
Colors and rainbows,
trapped and smeared into the oblivious seas.
Tamed.
Without the lightening
we would never glow.
Notice the shadows.
Evil, spineless,
fleeing from something charged more powerful,
luminescent and real.
If you fear getting struck
you will never be able to cry with the sky,
trusting tomorrow you’ll sigh.
Watch the wolves whimper,
share a bowl with the wind.
Fear is the myth your hopeless, sorrow struck soul should hear.
The only terrifying thing
is that we can fear
with nothing but the future near.
Tomorrow,
what if you have to meet the sky,
and it ask you why you hide?
Its here.
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