Placating the Darkness

Waiting for the sun…on an overcast day.

Hoping to keep the monsters at bay.

Walking from room to vacant room…

only seduces my plight.

The smattering of charcoal clouds…black, gray butterflies…

Once I tailor my sight…

all that surrounds is placating…bright.

Chilled Tears

 

In the chill of spring rains…

Comes the ridicule.

A flurry of inquiries sounding off to tone-deaf songs.

Moistened mists whose embrace feels lonely and wrong.

Chilled April tears aware of all the ways to be wicked.

Rapidly descending lullaby’s of walks that will never be.

Addled salutations awash in April rains…

And,

a chorus of her dramatic melodies.

Milton

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Seasons return, but not to me returns day,

or the sweet approach of even or morn,

or sight of vernal bloom, or summer’s rose,

or flock, or birds, or human face divine.

But cloud instead,

and ever-during dark

surrounds me,

from the cheerful ways of men.

Cut off,

and for the book of knowledge fair

presented with a universal blank.

Of nature’s works to me expunged and razed,

and wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.

Save for Rainy Days

 

“Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.”   ##Poe

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Anonymously,

grabbed by the tail…

there is an aura of frail.

How can one attend to vulnerability?

With anger on a pallet.

In the mist…

a waif.

Wanting a morsel of dignity.

While she cries through the brume.

She, alone, keeps the mystery.

Further off the thwarted passage.

Another bough breaks.

Earlier a broken shaft.

Now,

a poetic forgotten,

wooden stake.

Scarred by death.

The mysterious waif,

drifts.

Surrounds herself in a shroud of…

liability…

What if?

 

Nothing so bare,

as an,

open hand,

closed mind

or a begrudging first.

Always the healer.

She has traveled so long.

Just to stay so far away.

Save for rainy days.

Save for rainy days.

 

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