Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Winter Mourning

Winter Mourning

Future up ahead,
past in the rearview,
the surround-zero-sound
of morning mist, deafens.
I’m not sure where to go.

Driving towards the sun,
pink, chapped, sore skies,
speaking in future tongues,
searing as a headache;
I’m not sure what to do.

Heading eastward,
following lake-laden clouds,
heavy with contradiction,
pending, empty, who knows;
I’m not sure what’s next.

Inside my self,
grief has no color,
broken makes no sound,
tears take on unique shapes;
I know how I got here.

Beyond current concerns,
fog-lift will be forgiving,
head will mend soon enough,
heart will be slightly bruised;
I will get on with this.


candy said...

I love how you seem to fix yourself towards the end, the way you reach a place of perspective... of hope. Very beautiful my friend.

Anne Cunningham said...

Truth be told, I probably can only do it on paper, the "fixing things" towards the end. :)