She left at the yawn of dawn
Between fog-densed waking hour
And rain-soused grey morning.
Veiled, her image was laced in silhouette.
She stood behind the fog-rain, a dark
Painting, sketched in black crayons of
Languor.
Her breath, one streak of ink
Of a satanic fresco on a dingy subway.
And the breath of the rain was heavy,
Brewed in hauteur -
So was the world between us two,
Lame and proscribed.
She wandered through flighty directions.
Grouches filled her lugubrious lungs,
Blotches on the sludged track, echoing
Her slouch.
She was one mass of trembling grief.
I was one hulk of ruinous pain.
Between us, the funeral of love.
Threnodies held court on the once soft
Yolk of hugs that sensitized an ageing
Romance.
Dawn darkened with the pulse of grief
Rain pelted the senses held by solemn
Consternations, recreating a fruitless
Void of hollow trepidations.
She lurched and sidled towards the
Crag-lined route, towards earth’s drooling
Beck... and I knew the funeral
Was over.
Oftentimes in a persons life certain sounds heard trigger a particular mood.
The early morning sun is bright
My spirit waxes with the light.
So why do mourning doves still sing
Woeful threnodies this morning?
I hear robin’s newly hatched, cheep;
I hear house sparrows young ones tweet
But when I hear the doves refrain:
cooOOoo-woo-woo-woooo! Sadness
Overwhelms this brief cheerfulness
and changes to melancholy.
Why, oh why, by all that’s holy
Must it betide, this dove songs pray
Always in this similar way?
Each day matters not- good or bad
A sadden heart is all I have.
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