Still Time

Life's so abundant with misery, nature's practicing metamorphosis, generously tense and uptight, lifts no lightness, steady with its frost. Gray is the Sun, trenchant clouds, rustles of trees reveal the night, entering but dispossessed. I hear strange voices cry, shadows cross the path close press us unaware, a silhouette salutes the eye, its curtain drawn. Let there be darkness, darkness illuminating darkness, we cannot aid or mitigate, ask no beauty to intercede. This cramped moment is not mine to give, though far apart from worshiper's time, Spring's spirit. Still is the time, its folded garment by no motion stirred, fabricated remnants fled to sky, no thunder peels through the absence, life was once so abundant, sustained in open fortitude, spirit flowing, hopes flying, the raindrops loitering like domes of pink and purple, their buffet gone, fraught with pain, quicker than breath indrawn. Spirit alone can regenerate a safe haven, lessen the convolutions vast, lift up again hope's incapacitated body, reeling under the torrent.