copyright © 2022. All rights reserved by the author.
On the sands of the arena, I spill my blood,
‘til I fall, where once I stood,
or blast that man, who blocks the Sun
upon my form, ‘til he goes dumb.
Fragments of mind are punched
from thoughts,
with every blow of thunder-shots.
The storm is beyond our range to hit,
above our ken, where Olympians sit.
Roses wilt from pounding out
of petals red;
the rains paining themselves
to make some flowers dead.
Hearts handled to beat in power and prime
leak out the life of human time,
ending dreams, before they can climb
the blue-arched lens, where stars shine.
I am a man of little coins and of many tears.
I bury my hopes in a copse of fears,
‘til I am beaten dry of years.
My light is what shines upon the ground
at Dawn, when Venus brings her fire ‘round…
Bless the morning bright and the birds’
speech of spirits, set to sound!
---Michael Mauro DeBonis, 01-28-2022.
About the Author: Michael Mauro DeBonis is a poet and a historian from Long Island, New York. A graduate of both Suffolk County Community College (A. A. in Liberal Studies) and SUNY Stony Brook (B. A. in English Literature), Michael’s work first appeared in the Village Beacon Record and the Brookhaven Times Newspapers. Michael’s latest work (poetry and prose) may be found in the New York History Review and elsewhere.
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