Black ink and sunbeams poetry

The weight of the day settles, like a marionette without strings; half mad, word-blind, its eyes cast to the river should it fall upon us, feet set along my circular path, even your sharp edges would be insufficient to free those fractious thoughts, that, if withheld their page, prelude oblivion 

Cloud-weaver, Queen of midnight, Composer to the music of my heart, violet are the shadows that adorn your paintbrush, soft as the sun setting upon the gravel walkway where we once stood still, your lips tasting of summers final moments

Three months and a day, catch the hourglass in your fingertips, spin forward the minute hand, for when we must sift each precious moment through a curtain of misery, who is to say what next will come tumbling, unexpected, into being

Sat around the circular table, tomorrow set aside, your cheeks flush in laughter, a smile like your namesake in bloom sweeps the cobwebs from my mind when even the poets pen becomes rooted in its grooves, and the exile, beset like Babel shirks his load, the willow yet sheds its leaves and the river carries…

Five to five you inquire about the nature of the ocean indwelling the soul, the sea of half-thoughts, transfixed in motion, swept aside by solitude, cast away in grief, stolen like a silent soliloquy at midnight, caught as before In my windpipe

The sirens melody begins at sunset, rhythmic, maddening, soft as children’s laughter and dreadful as words spoken in anger, undeserved like an empty bottle, or the poet’s page colored with love and loss,  infected by doubt and laden down with longing, we too, earned the right to ride the ink-tide set free in parallel lines,…

Imitate the Maker’s brushstroke, saturated with sentiment, broken like the prose of a refugee, what can endure the wasting of days, marked by slivers on the wall, what if joy is hidden in plain sight, in the sunbeams, in solitude stripped bare and forgotten?