Meet me under the power lines,
In the pewter sky of November.
I can see them..
Snuffed out, like the life of a dandelion.
Though they are... [Still like statues]
Can they hear me?
Awash, translucent among the vespers,
Something is coming to extinguish them.
I wonder: how fervent is the hand,
that erases his own writing?
Stoic, on their perch, they do not want to stay.
Tonight they will fly away.
I really really love your style. The way you write really makes me have to sit and process the poem to really get it. That, I believe is what poetry should be like. It should cause you to take the time to take it all in. Very good metaphors on this one and great vocab you have there. Keep it up, you definitely have talent.
I'm not sure why the title is what it is, yet I do.
This is a really weird poem...but, yet, it's so wonderful. It's not quite an "Oh, wow" poem, but it's up there. [And for me to say that about a non-rhyming poem; be proud.]