A poem for the new day

All we can hope
Is that tomorrow’s
Tempests will be
Anaesthetized
By sweet ether
And we may cross
Boldly over ways once
Serpentine, but now
Seductively subdued
By strolling fingers
Beguiling sad souls
Out of their deep
Dark repose and into
Fancy fits causing
Fireshows
Raining down seeds:
The precious present
Seconds of existence
That bloom either
Resplendent bouquets
Or grotesque thorns.

© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.