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Andrey Kneller

of

Bronx, NY, US

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m.kneller@worldnet.att.net (Andrey Kneller)


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The moon has spilled the silver flour...

by

Andrey Kneller

The moon has spilled the silver flour
The pale clouds grimly sneezed
Late August, covered up in mist
Arose from sleep before the cock
Could publicize the needed hour.
Two ashen birches with a twist
Shook off the ravens and the flock
Arose from branches with a holler.
The sultry rays, sprung up askew
Reflecting off the morning puddles.
The grass would gather into huddles
To share the sacred drops of dew.
All was awake and only you
Were still in slumber. Two small shoes
Lay carelessly below your bed.
And to this day, I still regret
Not waking you to see the splendor.
I let you sleep, my precious Muse,
And now in sadness of September
There’s nothing there to reproduce.


The candle faded...

by

Andrey Kneller

The morning stared into his face
So weak and jaded
The candle faded into haze
The candle faded

Upon his hands, dark stains of ink
Transformed in color
And blooming early, far from spring
The nature hollered

Outside the window, in embrace
The winds debated
The candle faded into haze
The candle faded

The molten wax froze on his shirt
Remaining warm
And all was tranquil and inert
And all was calm

Behind the desk, in common stance
So full of wonder
His head lied rested on his hands
His soul in slumber

Where tangled in a single gaze
Two fates were braided
The candle faded into haze
The candle faded

And silence crept into the room
Quick and eternal
Dim shades and shadows of his doom
Fell on his journal

The sun was rising in its place
As if inflated
The candle faded into haze
The candle faded