Only Morning Will Tell What Kind Of Day Will Come

I sit staring where silence is a choice because words are not able to carry the confusion that swims mockingly around my head and heart.

While tender whispers from my lover flutter past and draw me to a place where tears flow with longing, I lethargically launch a desperate defense against the fear that all is false and nothing but empty hopes await me in the days to come.

Who speaks these lingering lies that wrap their wiry tentacles around the treads of my thoughts and lulls me into this lazy trance?

Spinning and circling round my soul like vultures waiting for their weary prey to die, they mock with spiteful amusement at the stumbling antics that accompany my tears of desperation.

A comic sight, I suppose, for those bored by the reckless monotony of the mundane.

Another conscious breath.

In and out.

In.

Out.

Another attempt to muster enough energy to peek above the cloud to see if the dawn is close.

Too many disappointments.

In myself mostly.

Beaten down by pride and jealousy and the illusion of unfulfilled entitlement that never was, but seemed to flow freely in other lands.

Is this poetry or a nonsensical verbal montage patched together with darts thrown into a hurricane of confusion?

Madness doesn’t seem that far away.

A misty friend motioning with his finger to follow him into the abyss to find rest.

Rest.

Deep rest.

No more mocking dreams that wake to disappointment and despair.

No more illusions of peace that cannot exist with so many voices arguing and claiming to be true alone without compromise or listening to those who live and see things from the other side of the village.

Sometimes I need to escape from words.

Thoughts.

Thinking.

Just need to be.

Sounds so cliche, but it is true.

Words have become a prison from which I am unable to escape. Trying to explain what I feel or what I want or what I don’t want.

Can’t do it anymore.

Silence and the love of my lover are the only things that bring comfort to my dying, shriveling soul.

Dry bones gasping for one last drink of life.

Words lay like dust across the wide-eyed corpse staring out into the star-filled night.

Are you really there?

Does someone really hear me when I cry?

Can I sleep now?

Will I reawaken to a new dawn and a new life that holds true to the promise of love and life and laughter and all things good?

Sleep first.

Only morning will tell what kind of day will come.