Coffee and pale light, I always start here, and it seems always appropriate a place to start, when one contemplates beginnings, mornings. In my mind, it is still last night, and my friend, my dear friend, is sick. Survival is a messy business, the avoidance of misery in its myriad forms equally so. I wish that I could swallow it up, swallow up all the dirge of tears, and fear, sink to the utmost bottom of it and swallow it all, take all of it inside me and thereby annihilate his fear, and not hear but whispers, and not the trite uncomfortable mumblings of people that would say to him that all is well. They don't know, they talk more to themselves, to allay their own fear, not to apply comfort to his. To survive merely for the sake of surviving is what we are built for (is it - NO!), and my own selfish rot and selfish needing, grasping desires compell me to say things, because dammit, he was built to survive this. For my friend, I must write my morning song.
-author
A Morning Song
watching the clouds sneak through
pale moonlight filtering down, it's easy
to believe in nothing and feel
the heart, as hollow and light as cloud, is
born on wind barely felt, yet interminably fast.
watching the silent demon shake
with fury in the breast, sweat
gleaming poisonous on the brow,
is like the godhead, racked with
his own superfluousness.
And so I sit here, damned to
believe that messages and portents
can and will be unmasked by
the uncaring moon, and that love,
that most light, furious air, Will
move my soul to its own conceit.
|
|
|
More by Will Evans |
recommend this
email
print
link to this page
Comments: 12
when we bear the pain of witnessing
the reflection of our own demise.
What perfect phrase can lift the daze
of shocking revelation.
Bird song crescendo of this new dawn
Found me mourning this morning
For a friend not gone.
WIll, this poem makes me glad to have written my poems, makes me happy to have a chance to call you friend and fellow poet yet again.