Beneath Bashful Bloodied Skies

Photo by Ricardo Gomez Angel on Unsplash

These mountains,

the Sangres,

standing tall and unabashed,

the remnants of a page ripped from God’s novel.

We sit in its wake

wondering of which of these unknowable secrets

we’ve been robbed.

Above, the clouds are the blood of our sins

drop-dropped into the ocean of heaven

drawing us in, such that we can’t look away.

Golden embers dust these peaks and

sparrows feast on sparks

as darkness sounds its final warning.

And then, like the color draining

from a fast-dying day,

we are left amidst the pallor

of a world that just keeps turning.

Features fade into obscurity

and our marvel melds with meaningless majesty.

An offering of our love

swept downstream

and consumed with thankless irreverence.

This world is larger than we.

Our odes console our restless souls far more

than they honor the subjects of our fascination.

So quietly we weep,

enshrined and imprisoned by our hopeless humanity

while the wolves run free

and the elk die gracefully

beneath bashful, bloodied skies.

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