Perhaps

With the moon so low
threatening to drop
I see the ebony cloud drape a mantle
over the freckles of light
and I feel the dewy caress of the wind
on my face that's glaced with tears.
I reach out only to sift frigid air
with fingers grarled from hands
clenched tightly into fists of frustrations and pains.
My arms tremble along with each silent sob I take,
my lungs scathed by ashes from yesterday's afterburn.
Darkness is a comfort.
Light has deserted me, perhaps afraid
stung with the shards of my broken cries.
I've no more tears to shed;
perhaps hope is a vanity now.

02/14/05
08:14am
~djf