Then,there...

There, stare hard, into a morning...
There, the sun still rises, but where?
 Then, is it my eyes that sees, or my dreaming senses;
 Then, do I stare, at the unformed edges,
Or is it the foaming edges that quake, nay  wither?
Again , what is it that my eyes behold...
If they behold at all?
At the edges ,bubbles form, in frosty specks,
At the edge of conscience, freezer burns,
They  were there, silent , waiting,sheathed,
Silent in the hearts, in the minds, bubbling,
Yet deform , all despite  time , cold and hardening...
The days , they still form, but the inner sanctums,
To all deities lay defiled,freeze burned consciences that scatter...

Poem by P c 3 ---(08/12/17)