I wake of a morning
gazing into the gentle face
of early dawn,
a shaft of golden light capturing
dancing to the song of the winter bird.
But the joy of this new day is fleeting,
stolen away by whispers of memory,
rousing searing pangs of sadness
and awakening shudders of tormenting loss.
Silent tears are shed.
Stinging cheeks with their bitterness,
blinding eyes with their anger,
chaffing lips with their loss.
Falling to the ground,
tears now indescernible
from the new born dew
glistening across dawns’ brow.
Shadows lengthen now and my sorrow lingers,
mingling with the perfume
of paper whites
Evocative and heady fragrance
A time infused with spirit,
animated by love,
woven through with humility,
blessed with grace.
But flowers wilt,
fragrant aroma usurped.
The fetid stench of death and decay
now on the lips of each petal.
Breathing in familiar demise,
a notorious foe breaching awareness,
shrouding me in suffocating heartache,
this pungent pall now my funeral cloth.
Nightfall under an aging moon.
In the gloaming memories turn inky,
twilight steals in and blurs edges.
Veiled under the murky darkness
uncertainty sprawls like a fog,
smothering my senses.
Tears will come no more.
I am forsaken,
my loneliness a trough
for any beast to come sup from.
Pervasive sorrow snakes around my neck.
Stealthy and beguiling,
the Serpent in the Garden.
Lulling me with lies of tranquility,
I am caught in his constricting coil.
Forked tongue now spitting venomous untruths.
Wresting with the folds of my convulsing flesh
the Charlatan grins as the light fades.
The seduction complete.
And the chair I perch on clatters to the floor.