This poem is dedicated to my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt Sr.

Between the prophecies of morning
and twilight’s revelations of wonder,
the sky is ripped asunder.

The moon lurks in the clouds,
waiting, as if to plunder
the dusk of its lilac iridescence,

and in the bright-tentacled sunset
we imagine a presence
full of the fury of lost innocence.

What we find within strange whorls of drifting flame,
brief patterns mauling winds deform and maim,
we recognize at once, but cannot name.




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Mohamed Sarfan's picture

Dear Poeter, Memories of grandfather never leave the minds of many grandchildren until the last. Tears well up in my eyes as I think back to my grandfather's handshake. In a life that thinks only the rising will last, the sunset will imprison us to death against our will. All The Best My Dear Friend, Write More Congratulations

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