Aurora

Australis

The soul is no heliotrope,
Bending its stem, slowly
To grope its way to the light.
I believe it throws its tendrils

Open, singing wildly, idly,

Southern facing in the face

Of thunder, turning round

A compass rose, flashing

Fast as if to cast a net

To catch another wanderer,

A confused forgotten lover.

The soul can bleed a desperate

Color despite its sober strength.

And South is quite the green,

The red, the blue of any other.

Borealis

A heart requires nothing more
Than a target, where the soul
Must be satisfied. Cautious or
Reckless, broken or whole,
Where the soul sings, the heart
Shouts, translating all its potent
Poetry to the many grays of dawn,

Etched in acid across the sky.
True North is a calamity of blood,
Casting stains upon us all.
The fall will not be heralded
By a battalion of aimless souls,
But by the seamless assault
Of a billion hearts, giving voice
To the colors of day and of night.
And as we await the time
Of our demise, we face the North
Expecting something true at last,
For the North is quite the dark,
The light, and dusk approaches fast.

EJR