Come morning. Great morning. Great crimson red rage.
Though I should take warning, I savor my sage,
And watch with my eyes as the darkness of skies
Turns blue while you strangle the night as it dies.
I feel its last gasp, or its wheeze, as a breeze
That kisses my cheek, and then buckles my knees.
Then faintly the frothing of milky white waves
Come plant the sea’s seashells in sand granting graves.
But off in the distance and high in the air,
The tear-sated mournful with souls of despair
Attend Twilight’s wake as each gloom-slated face
Releases its shadow to cover this place.
Yet radiant butter that flies in the mists
Come copulate flowers with wing fluttered wisps.
And corpulent Robins that peck for their prey
Raise spirits in song to this breaking of day.
As salt from the sea sends fresh breaths to my lungs
Exhaling the flavors o’er buds of my tongue -
A newness of hope for the first of my days -
That Death will lend death to my drear yesterdays.
I lavishly lather the breadth of my blade,
And stain purplish patterns on canvas I made.
Although this fine painting will never be sold,
I bite off its colors, and swallow them whole.
Then at its destruction, a sigh as I rise,
For Ravens of raindrops fall fast from the skies.
Now quick to close windows, while morning – it wanes
As iron-clad claws tap their rap at the panes.
This shelling is swelling while shotguns recoil
As thunderings roll while their lightning bolts boil
The waters where Lorelei lull with their lungs
In hopes to sink ships with a shattering of rungs.
The wind - it grows angry, and angrier still,
And begs for an entry at each windowsill.
It gnashes and gashes the limbs from their trees
Like runaway children who leave as they please.
The downtrodden grass bows each blade to the blast
And wonders, in prayer, just how long this will last.
But each drip that dribbles, they drop in the dust
Where thirsty roots drink in a thirst-frenzied lust.
The torrent of torment does seem, now, to tire
As maelstrom grows meeker in mottles of mire.
Tall trees that once tottered from fierceness of wind
Have straightened their trunks that have ceased, now, to bend.
Against the prismatic-hued patterns of light,
A blue-riddled bluebird returns in its flight
To drink from the leaves that this withering storm
Did daintily leave dangling, though torn and forlorn.
The sun once again peering through a peephole
In cumulus grandeur - a sheep in full wool,
Does visit this lawn with a patience to stay
And chase all the shadows of sorrow away.
I smell the sweet morning fast fresh from its bath
As I set to patter the plank-laden path.
Between stone-cast cherubs – so distant their stare,
As though trapped in thoughts between hope and despair.
Now past a faux fountain that spatters and spits
And pours forth its pleasures in rivulet fits.
Meanderings move me through oceans of ferns
That welcome, as always, my many returns.
Then over a hill, or a mound, as it were,
As feelings rush in, and rush in with a blur.
I feel the sun with me – its arm on my back,
And warm on my shoulders for courage I lack.
Then boldness, though borrowed, does steady each step
In solemn approach to the crypt I have kept.
A stone – like a Hobbit’s concrete entrance door
Does rise from the dirt of this cold forest floor.
I hear all the chitter of chattering birds
As slowly I bend to this braying of words:
“In sweet loving memory laid here to rest
My wife, sweet companion, dear friend – and the best”.
Now numb as I kneel, I remember the peel
Of tires that screeched, then the scrunching of steel.
I watched the blood drain from her beautiful face,
And witnessed her eyes leave this pain-ridden place.
A year ago Sunday, and Sunday this is,
And yet all the heartache and sheer anguishes
Accompany me, though I beg to be free.
To simply remember her sweet memory.
But now I must rise with this tear painted cheek
And turn from her tombstone, with one final peek.
I hope for the best. New beginnings to come.
And pray for the strength in this race that I run.
But what is –is done – so I must move on
And try to embrace this most radiant dawn.
For storm clouds have drizzled their drabness away,
So I must start fresh, as this freshness of day.
