The Song
I stand under a murky
Frosty green-colored awning
That hangs strong with age
Over the damaged
Creaky
Front porch steps
And I can see from here
Your convoluted
Distant
Pot-holed path
And with the rain falling
I’m not even damp
But your Italian, black-laced hair
Drips with wrath
The charcoal leather jacket
And “Terminator” boots
Once tapped slowly
On worn linoleum floors
Your body violently pressed into
Button-down blue jeans
Pools of deceit linger defiantly
In your gray, overcast eyes
As I glance through mine
Resolvedly green,
Measured, clear
What is it you now feverishly crave
From my young
And tired life
When once you cherished me
Like dry, dieing grass covets the
First Fall rain,
With brittle, trembling hands
Holding on to flesh
Not yet betrayed
When it comes down to simple
Timeless
Antique-yellowed memories
I long ago
Stopped caring
Whatever anti-climatic gifts
Your opaque
Mountain god
Laid in your calloused
Belt-wielding hands for me
Is what we won’t be sharing
So brighten my midnight,
Without lingering long
And smooth out my
Stumbling-on-jagged-rock days
Only then can my silenced lips
Sing my off-key
Untimed
Un-rhymed
Last
Sweet sorrow song.
© 2007
Charleigh Wallace 