Weathering

These clouds remain
Pouring their rain
Sparking from the friction
They wait to ignite flames
Striking the dry brush of resentment
Burning away into anger
Desire to hide
Attempt to get away
Retreat into a fortress of misery
But only darkness awaits there
Deeper and blacker than the shadows of the clouds
A prison built and maintained by the self
While that torture lasts, so does the storm
Inescapable if unchallenged
To see the sun again, shrug off the chains of pity
Dismantle the walls of self-sorrow
Remove the shell of personal hell
And see a crack in the sky
A patched quilt warming the landscape
Shape the weather without knowing the forecast
And you may come to realize
That cloudy skies can be the most beautiful

Shadows

A shadow on the heart.
Stormclouds gather on a winter's day.
Freezing rain pours down.
Pray for sun to pierce the veil,
But that day is long in coming.
A chill wind.
The spine tenses.
Hair raises, senses on alert.
It is coming.
Cracking like a glacier, pushing waves of despair.
To catch a snowflake on the tongue tastes bitter.
To trudge through the piled snow saps strength.
When will the spring come?
When will green leaves return to bare branches,
Smooth grass cover the hard, dark soil,
And flowers paint their tapestry?
All the world waits breathlessly,
All of one's world waits for what's next.
Waiting. Yearning. Longing.
All that is ever known.
When will a new fire melt this sheet of ice?
When will the walls of fantasy stop collapsing,
Endlessly building and tearing themselves down?
Control wrested away by the claws of fortune,
Determination lost in a sea of madness.
Ensnared, the creature cannot escape.
Not for a time.
Thorns of a rose, a flower,
So easily missed, so unintentionally placed,
And so sharp to the touch.
Bless the hand that takes away.
Turn back to naive innocence and find the door shut.
One day, the clouds will part, the light return,
The spirit will be reborn.
But until that day,
When suffering turns to satisfaction,
A shadow on the heart remains.

To the End

A crisp chill in the air,
Wind rustling the dead branches,
Frozen mud crackling underfoot.
Sun and cloud vie for dominion,
Light and shadow compete for my gaze.
Shivering souls hustle from class to class,
Wrapped and bundled to shut out the cold.
Fireplaces and cocoa arm the students
In their war on winter's encroachment.
Hurrying, finishing, preparing, waiting.
An end in sight.
Those who've grown closer, about to be parted,
Wishing for home, but wanting no goodbyes.
The door is closing, the page turning.
The final approach to the finish line.
The end of another year.

Pathfinding

White powder blows across a street lamp's glow,
A glittering, moving sheet of fresh-falling snow.
Mud pulls down on my shoes, urging me to stay.
I cannot, for a great many tasks fill every day.
As the wind splashes my face like waves on the coast,
I think of the faces and times I remember the most.
Times of joy, times of pain, triumph, and sorrow.
More of these await on and after the morrow.
No sun lights my way, the moon I cannot see.
Electric lamps reflect on the wet paths for me.
I know where to go, my goal is quite clear,
But the ways to get to it are what I fear.
Sweat, blood, tears, anger, frustration, and toil
Pull me backward and downward like the soft, soaked soil.
The work never ends, it seems; an endless endeavor.
I feel like I'll be here, cold and dragging, forever.
Indeed, the road has no true end, not on this world.
It's after this life that the truth will be unfurled.
So I walk onward, ignoring my heart's dismay.
I travel the path, hoping to find myself along the way.

Cold Night

The bleak and piercing cold
Makes my bones feel old.
Misery untold.
Finding nothing warm,
Try to do no harm,
By raising no alarm.
Stumbling in the black,
Fall flat on my back.
Brace for the attack.
For a helping hand,
I dare not to demand.
But yet I cannot stand.
Lost without a friend.
The world my soul to rend.
This must be the end.
Such a state of mind,
To be so fully blind
And think life so unkind.
Despite the worst of men,
Though shiv'ring in my den,
The sun will rise again.

Authorship

To type the words upon the page,
A monstrous undertaking.
Though quickly done in this our age,
My pace is slow and breaking.
Creating worlds of wrath and woe,
I wish to tell a story.
Of battle with a mighty foe,
And throes of human glory.
Though vivid pictures fill my mind,
My hands grow tired and weighted.
I seek a place in humankind,
My deeds all celebrated.
I can't go on; my head, it aches,
My wrists are sore; I stumble
O'er plots, and twists, and where to take
My hero 'fore I crumble.
Press on, press on, I hear one say.
Let not your dream unravel.
'tis soon you'll wake and find the day
When to those heights you've traveled.
The voice is mine, my heart and soul
Wage war against my sadness.
I cannot fail to reach my goal,
E'en if it leads to madness.
So fly, my fingers, soar, my words.
Break through the limitations.
Paint skies and men and tales unheard.
Unleash imagination.

Mysterious Ways

I strain to hear the sounds of joy and love,
But all I hear is thunder in my head.
I hope to find a message from above,
Yet all the trust in self from me is bled.
We turn to earthly loves for reassurance,
Put trust in our possessions for our rest.
A useless salve for sinful convalescence,
Attempting to avoid our wrongs confessed.
A laugh, a gift, a word from friend or brother
Is oft the last thing left for us to cling to.
We wish for God to rend the clouds asunder
And write the course of action we must see to.
But who's to say that word or deed of kindness
Is not from God? We miss it in our blindness.