Driving down Old 82
in the weeks of winter's end,
Passing through those spots of towns;
Their opus of long ago already played.
Decrepit old, shells of buildings shuttering in the new year wind.
If only the walls could,
What songs they would sing.
That hollow siren call now faded,
Its ghost among the towering trees
Rattling about with an empty sound,
Of past life in a muted town.
"Was it really," you ask dumbfounded,
"Once built up, all brand new?"
For a people all dispersed,
Or hiding 'neath their granite mark.
Wild branches scrape on rotting wood
Of a house standing tall and crooked,
While a glass window shatters in a shop off Main,
The last free and mar-less pane.
So goes the South's once sonorous song.
Of present, a dirge of heartbreak,
Of her neglect, a cry born of vacancy,
The vibrancy of a past long gone.
March 7, 2016
Late nights have coveted my mornings,
For how quickly does that saccharine dew fade
And leave me in a state of mourning
For the evaporated, decadent crystals who bade
A warm hello and happy day.
And in the late folds of the witching hour,
With most souls asunder in their dreams,
I sit awake with a serenity of dour
As the starless new-moon night not gleams;
Quite the opposite of a chirpy day.
A primordial expanse, the mind’s domain,
Oh how I wish the dreams would stay;
Alas, ethereal portals oft cease to remain
And they dissolve into warm nigh-afternoon rays
On this glorious, late-started day.
After the long, arduous, and raucous din
Of a hardly sonorous shift of clock clicks,
I wind down to the heavenly singing of a violin
And early retreat to the night’s fantasies without tricks,
Earnestly awaiting the forthcoming day.
‘Morrow’s morn is oh so sweet
As I rise early with the glorious sun
To greet him in his embrace ‘fore heat
Encloses the land and mars its brun;
This morning shall make a seraphic day.
November 5, 2015