Monday, December 2, 2013

The Color Red by Janet Elliott Brown

Through the window of tomorrow, one cannot see today...only yesterday is clear and it is gone. It is color faded and pale moonlight. It is yellowed leaves and falling dust swirling in the heated breath of night.

Where does all the sorrow hide until it slowly rises up? It is always there but it's hidden in the light. Dressed in camouflage, blended in and shrunken down, hidden in the shadows of the darkest night.

Finding a place in a world of constant interruptions, too well one learns the lessons only despair can teach. The sum of a lifetime of used-to be's, might-have-been's that are there just beyond our reach.

Morbid is the mind of one who's left undone; alone and confused. Torn from the light and cast,  back and forth until no bearing will bring them round or hold them fast.

Ah... The brilliance of the truth hurts the eyes and blinds us when we get too close. To see what was, we must understand what is, and face the other ghosts.

Rarely left alone, endless demands for ears and eyes. No comfort is found in words so sweetly thrown, but it appears to yield so gracefully, as the seeds of time are sewn.

When what might have been goes down so quietly in ashes. Soundless, the night wraps the day in the darkest haze, and all hope dashes.

I take no comfort in the truth because it makes the rest a lie. A lie that draws the color red, but on closer look there is no color, only falling tears and words left unsaid.

It is the truth that sets us free. But the truth soon grows cold as the chill first finds its way inside. Waking alone in the silence, to feel the truth of love denied.

Emptiness and words unspoken, lie waiting like open graves so dark and still. I do not know what's in the winds that blow or what's over the next hill.

There was comfort in the new exchange of feelings and in those first tender words. Yes, it would be so pretty, but for the loss that rides on the backs of wingless birds.

Let it rest. The one you knew is no longer here. Now changed, merely from the rubbing off of you. Where the heart once was, scratches and scars from clenching hands grown weak from trying to hold on to you.

Nothing more can one heart take...
before the lonely heart does break.

No, nothing more can one heart take...
before the lonely heart does break.

No comments:

Post a Comment