Clouds at dusk, they bleed a song written by life’s blunt knife,
The ink of pain rains down upon me a sorrowful crisis,
It flows free from my veins serrated and sliced,
Sadness soaks into the dry sponge of my richly wasted life,
A chorus of starlings soars over the horizon dark and hazy,
Taking with them all tidings of hope and mercy.
She, who once sweetly sang the hymn of time,
Her song, which once echoed through my life and left a sign,
This music which was once the rhythm of our breathing rhyme,
It once more seduces me upon the purple twilight ridgeline,
The colours of the sunset bleed into the darkling land,
Dark depression leaks across my mind and stains my hands.
Grief, you rushed with wide open arms and kissed my once happy throne,
Your life changing embrace whispered secrets, laced with groans,
You cheated and robbed me, licked clean my weeping bones,
I know this world no more, only the memories now remain hot as volcanic stone,
All else is but a winter of my soul,
All now is buried in a cold graveyard hole.
Storms batter and sink my ships laden with yesterday’s screams,
The thunder echoes through the dead timbers of my dreams,
But know one thing, go chisel this on my headstone yet unseen,
Her spirit, her love, her words, all pure and clean.
Above the bitter eruption of tears
I hear a soul soothing voice which kisses away my fears.
*Her voice... I hear her beauty the night air fill,
It has her strength and it has her will,
As I stand on this silent grassy hill
I hear her still...
And she sings,
Her song dances and with truth rings.
An elegy for Mother's Day