Thursday, November 1, 2012

Mist: Inspired by Billie Holiday

               "If you have to ask what jazz is, you'll never know." 
                                                             — Louis Armstrong

This long, low moan
                     swelling in my throat
                rumbles like rough silk sliding across my landscape;

a tempest awaits - 
         finds only an empty horizon covered in mist 
                     where once, gardenias bloomed
           without restraint

          by the memory of your touch,
                a graceless state of anguish
      since you've gone,

I recall a remnant of music
                                    would move us
                  in slow synchronicity

Shadows soothe my eyes
              as they linger on an empty doorway,
                         where your step could once be heard - 

now, not a word is spoken
           and silence reigns
                    as a gathering of sorrow 
                 sweeps edges of my heart along

       currents of this quiet river 
             where darkness dwells
    too deep for dread
                       to ever find my arms again