Romantically Sublime

I've been reading Frankenstein. Can you tell?

As the birds chitter

And the cat cracks at a bone

The French doors open,

And myself, all alone.

Romantically sublime, I look

About me at the sky.

The last great wilderness, 

It stretches over and over

And over the earth, it speaks

In timid whispers that rustle leaves

stretching upwards and outwards and all ways

and I could be lost in it and I do so please to be.

But there is the storm cloud

Borne out of the station;

It creates a sour sort of snow:

A deadly clouded nation

And I wish it were gone, I 

Wish it weren't so lovely;

But the truth is out there, 

The truth that we've made ugly.

The End

3 comments about this poem Feed