The Art of Tea and Poetry

The Art of Tea and Poetry

Bruised Ribbons at Dawn


Alone at the crest
Of a crouched new day
Near a fractured nest
Found along the way.

Fragments of a home
Forlorn strewn apart.
Do those doves now roam
On quest fresh depart?

What wicked shattered
Duty built abode?
The remains tattered
Across graveled road.

Perhaps quick attack
Fell at midnight hour.
A cat clad in black
Crept mute to devour

The pair laced asleep
Within twig wreathe bed.
Feline fatal leap
Upon mates soon dead.

Did their cries so loud
Wake the slumbered sun
That paints morning cloud
With colors that run

Purple to blood red
Blotching pale lit sky?
On chance they had fled,
Pursued pair did fly

Before shears of fate
Could clip braided wings,
Threading cotton slate
To greet copper ring.

Grim weave hard to see.
No true clue at hand.
Only sign near tree,
Shredded nest on land.

Maybe they gave up,
A fabric gone wrong,
Frayed by empty cup
Of life's facile song.

Each bound to deplore
Such caged time wasted.
Torment can't ignore
Freedom once tasted.

By two or by one,
The result unknown.
Broken beam is come,
Destiny now sewn.

Sol slays wayward night,
Bruised ribbons at dawn,
Rippled tears of light
Whisper you are gone.


Sean M. Price

Sean M. Price enjoys writing. His storytelling spans the expanse of poetry to plays and ventures from the shallows of the short story into the depths of long fiction. He lives in Virginia.

About Sean M. Price

Sean M. Price enjoys writing. His storytelling spans the expanse of poetry to plays and ventures from the shallows of the short story into the depths of long fiction. He lives in Virginia.

© Frecklewood 2017, All rights reserved.

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