sorrow
The bellowed fog in open night,
Becomes unremarkable in the navy folds,
Buried in something thinner than shadows,
Something like the lonely sky.
For a friend, the eve is vacuous,
Though it truly is an eve within.
Somedays I seem just passenger of this,
Great rush through every person like a mist,
Which wets my face but soon is on the breeze,
I look and there I held too long a breathe,
But misty puffs were always for the breeze.
O little creature by the lake,
Come wrap now in vermilion wools,
For in the ripple of its folds,
A face, no doubt, is surly long.
With a stagnant malcontent,
The stillness is a deathly cool,
That leans too full upon the soul,
And dips the heart in ill-fit dread.
You, O little one, are for the wools,
Which cover you from head to soles,
Which cast in worlds unsaid a happy scene,
Not mirrors but a peak through knitted thread,
At home without this weary selfward gaze.
A witness to a firm farewell,
Are wages of such deep community,
Transplanting of our very hearts,
These are sorrows gladly held,
For they make lovely beds of hope.
How nice to share a wrap with you,
In this chaotic life.
It needn't be so easy though,
Need not be so sorted.
Need not be so thinly pleasant,
Our lives run deeper still,
To hidden sites eternal and unbreachable.
In passing moments of the day,
All manner of those homely hums,
Intrude upon the fabric of the mind,
Becoming all the static of its wires,
Decaying into shattered thoughts,
They are too fast, too low, too wide,
Too sad but through them is a sort,
Of tempering the heart.
A tragedy without reprieve,
No villain schemer dastardly,
But as the violent depths to turn,
The worthless things to polished stone,
No evil thing, no justice bent,
A crime without a criminal,
A fiddle without care for rhyme,
Just leaves a stifled hollow vast,
In place of sorrow cutting fast.
When all my waking seeks to sleep,
Curling at the edge of estranged self,
To fall within the arms of half oblivion,
Repose's false son: thief of evening light.
What is the meaning of a smile? Is it ever made the same,
Did I bear my heart too fast or hold it back in vain,
My stomach churns and I am felled with hard-placed pain,
Further from me than I ever knew,
Perhaps it was a blindness that I held for you,
To fail to see myself and seemingly you too.
Dancing lights at the call of a haloed moon,
The chilly overheating, the sober headache and forgetting,
The staggering humanity lining the streets like cilia,
The night grows old and festers to its silent buzz,
Why are you hidden, pied piper?
Care to share your hideous beauty with the evening air?