Northern Image

Scarred ravens scorch the ice

Of cumulus built upon canvassed sky

Norse fathers had told

Of a journey through winter’s long

But it’s the quiet before the gale

That distorts the easel’s stead

The Plot

Alliterate beings bound about

Illiterate minds cast shade in doubt

Literary figures stand strong

In this day and those beyond

Flash. 

Flow of the cold winter air. Circulating

In weathered strips of fermentation, the tears oft get lost in the creases-

Freely the fear freckles form

Uncanny.  A familiarity still-

As you’re left staring up the hill

Stone paths pronounced the trail

To the chapel house:

Where blackened shoes make their mark

Where wandering alibis come for their own

Where the darkness forms a cloud of clothes

Black and brown suits and slacks

Filtered grey veiled masks

In the interlude between patience and angst

“They keep the grounds very nicely, even with the snow and being so close to the road and all,”

“Yep, there’s never a sign of debris, nowhere”

Words. 

That’s all that remains. 

Words and memories of words and the way we attempt recreating images from those words. 

Some are distilled to paint the lines. 

Some distort the lanes of time. 

Others…

Are just words,

In a void,

Colorless and disturbed

Sometimes I wonder as you wait:

Do you feel lonesome?

Does the emptiness within consume you?

If it does I am dearly sorry

But rest assured-

It won’t be that way for ever-

And then…you’ll have me for eternity