Mournday Mourning

It is the mourning of our decay

And vision has not been there for me

As it has in the past

To smog my sight and blur blasphemy

And warp stained skies

Into floral figments of red.

Instead

Irises erode into a crystallized clear

Pure clarity I buried in the small of mind

Behind filaments of truth

 That flicker fractal in one eye.

The gossamer’s glint I loathe

In this love kind of way

Gnawing on a qualm

While it purges away our clouded

Shrouded

Blooming off-white

And the silver lining that sharpens my jaw.

But if I open my mouth to purge our all,

I know that there will blow these wisps of whispers 

Ever crisper

And sentimental to my throat

Yet when I choke 

I will find the breath bereft of the reality we’ve come to be

Our history

Crusts as paper kisses and stillborn wishes 

Upon my frown 

Patchwork stitches for our brittle vow

That chips and flakes within my lungs and coats

My tongue with the embryos of pearls

I cannot hurl into the sea

And now this cerulean 

Bestows its glow upon my sky

And in exchange, I

Must break this fragile, flimsy neck

To inspect the words I have stuck in my teeth

And remove He who inveigles my cheek

To wear his disdain as a stain 

Of freckles

Withering hands can’t seem to rub away

For Gray Eyes herself 

(with speckle of her own)

Keeps braiding the dismay down this spine of mine

Her gentle strokes against my hope

 Exhort me to paint

My quiver rouge because the color exudes

Unearthly beauty that was destined for me

And truth be told

I’d much rather sow 

And water a seed of cinderblock stock

And reap a wall that keeps at bay

Or barricades the blue dawning on our day and yawning 

Away our yearning to remain

Maybe then we’d be the same

Behind that double-pained glass of enigmas and stigmas

Spiting us with a cackle as it cracks

And mocking our lack of reflecting back to the black 

Of our minds

That only watched as time collapsed and died in our fickle laps

And perhaps 

For this reason

This season grows bold and corrodes the old

That weighs heavy on my skin

To respire the desire 

Groveling at groping at the hem of my rest

In the depths of my chest where he and I nest

Enshrouded by the cloudy dust and must 

Of pulverized goodbyes and deteriorating vision

Where I cradle my decision while in want of heart 

And afraid of tomorrow’s start apart

 

Reviews

[Misery]

AT LAST
At last I have found a poet who writes as replete as that gang of pens I lost during my thrice decades of sleep. Here is a timeless poem that could spill from tongues one hundred from now as naturally as it would have spilled from tongues one hundred years ago. I have long missed such words as this, dear poet.
Thank you for sharing.

[Friday]

Complex and expressively penned. It flows wonderfully.