In thunderstorms,
its blue glow awed men
on sea-soaked decks,
their salty hands held up
in naked prayer. Religion
has always been this way:
a strange, unphotogenic flame
I have never claimed
to see. When lightning ends,
the clouds blow off,
they all arrive at port,
then its plasmic light recedes
to hide inside their fingertips. They say
they read by it,
on darker days.
A contest entry
- Titles # 9 by cirque du soleil.
525 points, ended October 23, 20 entries
Silver trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
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then its plasmic light recedes
to hide inside their fingertips.
brilliant. i especially like the flow here. the whole ends of sentences in the middle of lines thing works well. or at least you seem to have made it work well here
thanks for the entry. I'm glad you chose this title. not many people did.
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