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Tears of the Blue-Bleak
Waking in this glass-light prison where losses magnify;
painful tear-prisms shiver and shatter
the blue-bleak shriek of air on another
mausoleum morning of mourning.
Grief's sharp knife-edge slitted
the sapphire sparkle of small hours.
Sky-cried raindrops trickle down the window pane.
My early morning coffee cup
brims with a bitterness I cannot contain.
Raw regrets throb thick in my throat.
Tears for the lost ones: the ghosts
who gather in fuliginous gloom,
their haunting hollow-husk words shivering through me.
Secret tears for the tiny life that leached from me
in throbbing gobbets of crimson.
Silent tears for the departed who sleep deep,
shawled in their tear-beaded soul-shrouds.
A filmy gauze of grief forms on my eyes.
Teardrops glisten like the crystalline beads
that glistered on the satiny sheen of my wedding gown.
A crystal flow of tears solidifies and freezes
to an ice floe of unaccountable fears
as the terror cards are dealt in turmoil.
A choker of tear-pearls chokes my throat;
diamond droplets of desolation
dampen my cheeks.
A sea swell of sadness squeezes
the salt water from each eye-pool
as losses batter and buffet me.
Morning's frangible glass-light
shatters; the teardrop shards
fall and scatter, blue-bleak,
in dolorous dawn's tear-trembling light.
Copyright ©
Charlotte Puddifoot
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