Aurora Borealis

New deities

of dawn

are being grown

inside us

while

unshed blood

is rolling

like fluid dice,

steaming

and screaming

its raging vows

like solid bombshells of light,
unleashed,
proclaiming

the sun will come.

Silk strings of silence,

untouched,

an iron curtain

drawn, at last,

to fully cover
the holy heartaches

running too quiet
whose dying whisper
cries "the sun will shine".

Wild tempers,

a peacefully magnetic storm
of torn up letters

and ice songs
dropped
on frozen grounds
for all those

drunk on white wine,
building a window
on every wall
only to prove

there will be light.