East Of Every Night Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

Breath of air
one of every season
hailing the ocean's waves
transient at times, blossoming
crystal blues that note the melody
heard on blushing lover's lips.
Winds and rains and snows
each season's sweets and
sweats reek of the soft incense
that yields all fair and fragrant sighs.
In midnight's shades, the earthly rest holds
what is sheltering and peaceful, what is heard
and seen, sealing the rush to where nature
leaves trace; dwelling in that paradise of
love's wilderness, bleeding lust's claim
to the culture of blood and hand, sweetly
strange passions and duel wildly, assailing
compassions of unknown ripeness shorn.
All this freeing the tender joy of nothingness
where beauty marks the rapture of liquid
languor, leaving changeless apathy alone to
it's squalor. Alone to doubt the power sealed
in an aspect of living that is no more and wanting
the loveliness that parts the breath, wanting that hue
hovering around welcome, wanting that flame which
warms the unforgotten. Those blued offspring of the
gulf, one's owned ashes of former fires; in name a
hope bequeathed in darkness hid, the colossus
that cannot trace the way to shore. To do so
cradle those callous things that pollute the least
to bring the craft alone remade, that courts the
cause glancing the advance of that light
slowly and strongly, towards a safer
shore, just east of every night.