Sunday, March 3, 2013

Fleeting




                                                 — Art: "Solitude", 1890 by Lord Frederic Leighton







Storms gathered without warning — 
thunder rumbles through my heart; my eyes rain 
as jagged lightning surges through hollow fingers,
burn all they touch, dreams diminished. 

Tempests are rare, yet when they form,
rage breaks loose from its moorings, 
decimating all within its narrowed path, 
turning ravaged soil into memory,
now gray with dust.

A murder of crows, driven from the horizon, 
dire warnings sound as they swiftly wing toward shelter — 
nothing is safe, snared inside this tumbling wrath.

Doom wears heavy, muddy boots,
dragging each unforgiving step with cruel intentions.

Widows and orphans are borne from this ferocious wind
thrust harshly into dark silences where forlorn shadows crawl.

The angry sky is tossed and torn by mourning — 
Peace seems such a distant dream.


*


Peace seems such a distant dream.

The angry sky is tossed and torn by mourning —
thrust harshly into dark silences where forlorn shadows crawl.
Widows and orphans are borne from this ferocious wind,
dragging each unforgiving step with cruel intentions.

Doom wears heavy, muddy boots; 
nothing is safe, snared inside this tumbling wrath.

Dire warnings sound as they swiftly wing toward shelter —
a murder of crows, driven from the horizon, 
now gray with dust, 
turning ravaged soil into memory,
decimating all within its narrowed path.

Rage breaks loose from its moorings.

Tempests are rare, yet when they form,
burn all they touch, dreams diminished 
as jagged lightning surges through hollow fingers.

Thunder rumbles through my heart; my eyes rain —
storms gathered without warning. 


*


Tempests are rare, yet when they form, 
rage breaks loose from its moorings, dire warnings sound — 
widows and orphans are borne from this ferocious wind;
the angry sky is tossed and torn by mourning.


***