I.
There are no pillars of fire to—
gather around; the clouds, they
deluge the prayers to and fro.
The deafened rumblings racing
the pouring torrents, as they
try to reach out, to answer,
and frown like morose protests,
like restless tantrums; and I—
I can only gasp for air.
Like salvations and unmet counsels.
II.
Remembrance follows ever-dearly;
shuffles carelessly amongst hasty—
coronations of dusted amber,
of dubious prints on the sand,
and it comes along, lavishly.
Esperance creeps tauntingly:
I wonder if it’s within me,
to reach out and sear the weave—
with conjoined hands, praying for air.
Like revising sextants and astrolabes.
III.
Dread is a candle in the dark,
nestled tightly into the fingers
and burrowed deeply into—
hands; they choose to hold on.
Blessed are the hands that harrow
and lean to the curtains of twilight,
to the lenses of hindsight:
merely debtors, to the fealty of morrow.
I can no longer grasp for air.
Like rainbows after a downpour, like chrysalides striking an impasse.
.
Holding it in.
