Metaphor here

From below, he saw the trestles
ablaze in Gothic flame,
where sparks of roguish laughter snapped-
...and arced its fervent blame.

The mottled sky flared ember red,
that streaked above his head
and spit its fiery vengeance
to singe the riverbed.

No corpse has ever stood so still
as he, who watched it burn,
then tossed the tin emphatically
beneath the marshy fern.

But there revealed, and brushed away
a tear that fell too late
that could not lend finality
to eyes that burned of hate. 

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed