Jan 302015
 
Extinct are all my cradle days,
The owl-rocking nights of mother-love
When the moon looked in at the open bays
From the forever-in-shadow grove.

Dead and clamped as brakes the rolling 
Races between we three furious brothers
Freestyling downhill until our voices
Dwindled on out of grace.

And dumb beneath mournful ocean blues
Squall the sung promises of lovers;
Deep among reefs, like griefs they sink
Which no one shall recover.

But what of today, this indomitable day
Arrayed fragrant as the sun?
What rocking, what racing, what graces may
Stay, more than what had come?

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