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