Waiting For The Sun Poem by Peter Black

Waiting For The Sun



Waiting for the sun to rise and hum,
Burn up the fog that is smoking the air,
That I can cut and spread with a flat knife,
Only to watch it return double thick.

Sometimes I think old gods were calmer there,
Back in the woods when pine and fir made air,
When hunger and pain warned you would die
Before we worked, traded paper and lied.
Drove to buy things in plastic lining;
When blood from a knife gave our hands red slime.

This fog I suck in each time I breathe,
Runs to the sea and when I call for wind,
Hear the high airs mock what I can not see.

You ask for a purpose, a hope to take,
To pretend time is not spent digging graves;
Yet mine is deep and down past hard stones,
Where the earth's waters smell sulfur and foam,

Little bubbles that each pop as if to say,
'You are alive, you are dead all the same.'
You ask for a prayer, a life in death,
Go to heaven and mourn in happiness.

The sun finally raises with a yawn,
How do I wish, but the fog is not gone;
But seeps into concrete, lies on the roads,
Hides inside buildings and crawls on your clothes.

The people come talking about their lives,
Call good things bad saying they will not die.
When the poor and sick sit waiting on streets,
I see the fog laugh and move where they breathe.

When I go into forests for frail peace,
Outside I hear the roaring hungry machines,
But in the dirt ants move carrying food,
Crawl on my limbs as if I was felled wood;

Not a bite, not a sting; but when I leave,
I see people fighting and I sense harm;
Nor can I see the ancient or new gods.

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