Dawn, beaten from overuse and exhaustion
hangs in burnt strips from the sky,
a victim of ink and graphite swords,
the weapons of far too many poets.
for ages they have seized you, Aurora, with words,
tried to paint your rose and your violet,
but only succeeded in bleaching you
the color of thick clouds at midday.
You have been given so many names,
who smears blood stained hands across the sky
and beats against the blue walls of her prison.
Golden Dawn, Clear dawn, New Dawn
titles heaped upon you
like so many pieces of cold metal
and still you are nameless,
a picture that shines for children
only to fade into the concrete side walks
leaving no warmth to remember.
I watch you rise from a filthy mattress
hidden in some dank room on Olympus
and spread across the horizon like a new bruise.
Each day I see you stagger up into the heavens
and lie down on the beaten sky path, waiting for Apollo’s chariot
to trample you into shreds of ultra violet and tattered ozone