A blue reverie

                                                                       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 ...

They were lovers in the dark, hands groping in the emptiness for something solid to hold. They were the same chords of the guitar playing different songs; Melancholy and nostalgia The dying embers of a once fierce flame. The last raindrop on sandy soil. Their rhyme was a water droplet on cold asphalt unfelt, forlorn, without cognizance.  February and July. Abandoned like crayons of a child at play. They were twin roaches looking for a home in the heart of darkness, delving deep into the black mess. Getting lost in the harrowing hues. Tumbling. Falling. Breaking. They were a whirlwind that gathered momentum and gyrated to a great crescendo collecting everything on its path, spewing dust, and clouding the whole town with wonder but upon daylight, the god of new beginnings, everyone dusted their apparel the wind now just a memory. Forgotten. She was July. Stoic. She was all of July stars, its sun, moon, freeze, mirth, and song. A half-moon hidden by the clouds on ra...