Song of the morning. Winter bliss. The things that were. Won’t ever be. The songs we sang have dried up in our throats. The melodies morphed back into pain. A thousand clouds, just a star or two. Beneath the leafless tree, a manic brain on a moonless sky. Flashing satin phantoms in the night. Whispers in the trees. Gentle laps on the stream. In the darkness, eyes become ears; blinking in the infinite emptiness of nocturnal and thoughts, wholesome darkness that can be touched. Darkness that enshrouds. I’ll rip a little bit of it and wear its black as a crown for pain. The rest I shall stuff in the voids of my soul to make me feel whole. A tear then two. Torrents from a clouded soul. Rushing breath and muffled ...
I am that which nature constantly absolves from pain.