The magic of the night
before the morning fog rolled in,
sorcerers at work with their
hands in the supernatural,
the conversion of the trees
from the botanical to the flesh,
the blind to the sighted,
limbs to tentacles,
roots to talons,
natural to surreal,
rising from the ghostly crevasses
where the spirits of the dead
come out and roam the fields,
where they chase away the grizzlies,
trample the flowers,
sing with the thunder,
dance under the lightning bolts,
pound the rocks with their fists
and stake their claim on the cliffs;
what goes on beyond the fog
is in the secret of the sorcerer,
whether kind or barbarous,
whether the trees are still trees,
the limbs are still limbs,
whether or not they are of the flesh
reaching down and
raping the flowers,
lapping up the rivers,
the last gasp of the living,
the rite of the Apocalypse,
or whether they are still trees,
the extension of sacred hands,
the works of the divine,
as the fog rolls away, we will know.

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Robert L. Martin
7 months

Thanx Nelson. I'm not that familiar with Macbeth. I know a little bit about some of Shakespeare's plays. I wish I knew as much as you do.

Nelson D Reyes
7 months

Reminds me of Macbeth and the 3 witches whose souls virtually are Sstan’s, they said: "Fair is foul, and foul is fair; Hover through the fog and filthy air."
I’ll go for a cerulean sky but will wait.

Great poem. Fave and like . Thanks Robert.

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Nelson D Reyes

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