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The Quaking Of A Doldrum

10 Sep

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In the calm before a storm,
there is freedom of lucidity,
upon awareness of the winds,
in that breath of stillness then,
when the sky has its remorse,
but the air is sweet with wonder;
time is stilled for the interim,
as the clouds gather for battle
across fields of green parade.

In a single moment, undying,
the sky becomes the audience,
where the crying earth is heard,
and in the distance, far removed,
the sun lashes the sky, scorned,
and bids wind to cast its wake;
now, shrill, cracks the lightning,
as earth is scolded by the storm,
and the calm becomes a tempest.

Chartered harshly by sudden din,
I raise my eyes to view the sky,
my gaze is met with falling tears;
in its infancy, this tempest stirs,
maturing fast in its own disdain,
as I am sheltered, standing firm;
and, having stayed the passage,
I now begin to grasp the notion,
with my epiphany left to suffer.

And here, again, stifled of verve,
my wits now apprehend purpose,
tho’ in their capacity, still undone;
were it with, or without recall,
whether nobler of mind or spirit,
bringing its loss to its fruition,
the moon may tell me a story,
yet I’m unable to comply at all,
left, sadly, to my own devices.

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Posted by on September 10, 2015 in My Poetry

 

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