Morning After
~
I open the door to search for the source
But there's no sound of it now...
Weeping that used to creep over the stairs, climbing trellis and vines
Climbing onto the porch roof, and into my room
A looming invisible smoke, that would choke me with grief,
Like a thief in the night, engulfing the room where I stand
~
Sounds of weeping could be heard with a far, but familiar dread
that sped through the night, remaining a bit out of reach
but dying at the foot of my bed
~
It would come like a child, crying in the dark
calling my name, lamenting the cost
of a light that was lost
a voice losing sight in the shadow of grief
that fades in the soft morning dawn
~
I stand in the door, and realize, of course
the voice of the wind
is my own
~
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