Sapient

He smeared his essence there,
Foetal in the bitter stagnant heavens,
With the child handprints engraved
Into the snow like petite gods belligerent
For the currency of atonement.

In denial, his mirrors wept,
As in self-perception,
He comprehended that he had befallen
Everything he sought to be.

That it had come wholly
And devoid of sorrow.
He certainly never considered
This sweet day would arise in flesh,
As it had in timescale dependency's,

And he truly believed that
In living forever
And touching the skyline
Of all that is in grasp

You can truly leave
A mark on the world.
You would think the hills are alive here,
As he lay bathed in red sweat,

Because there is no true sense
To the air and he felt soiled
In the cleanliness
Of all that is at hand.

Simple white nothings stare from glass jars and old bars

© Copyright 2006 Leigh Cole

Also Published in Erran Publishing Magazine, Winter 2006