dead languages

but sometimes I can’t help but think…
these painted days have tried to speak to me
in colors as if the last pure language remained lost in translation
a song only the seasons know but retold in the wandering dialects
of naked branches creaking for their leaves to return
It’s hidden in that burning flame
of dying sunsets that paint the old worn streets with parting tears of gold
the smoke blue light of morning in that stillness
when the cinders of the dream
have barely cooled to ash
that rises only to ignite again when our eyes close,
lit by a new days sunset
asking riddles in it’s ancient tongue
still waiting for my answer