Our eyes are the lens to life
the soul of our imagination
but...
if our eyes told only stories
in tones of
black or white
only saw never straight lines
a distortion of reality
?
who is to tell the tale
untangling the moving wind
can you hear it whistle
moan between bare trees
as your ears betray
the chill that washes
your brain
?
so unholy dark
the black overcomes the shades
dominating all sight
eating upon the colors
fighting in the everlasting night
sleep sweet hues
sleep until the morning light
?
who goes there
when shades of gray display
movement in the wind
sounds rise from beyond
sharp scrapes running
along my grave
animal or man who goes there
?
loneliness reigns
sitting on the black throne
leaving behind nothing
night after night I wait
my eyes are dead
but my mind sees so clearly
hope upon my lips
?
I wait
an eternity is just that
a clock that ticks
longer under the dirt
much lonelier where I lie
I wait
for there is nothing left of me.
barb
The spirit of the season is well captured,
ReplyDeletemoment of finality out of reach. In hand,
stoic imaginings, effectively censored;
our object of affliction unable to stand.