Aubade
AUBADE Song of the morning. Winter bliss. The things that were. Won’t ever be. The songs we sang have dried up in our throats. The melodies morphed back into pain. A thousand clouds, just a star or two. Beneath the leafless tree, a manic brain on a moonless sky. Flashing satin phantoms in the night. Whispers in the trees. Gentle laps on the stream. In the darkness, eyes become ears; blinking in the infinite emptiness of nocturnal and thoughts, wholesome darkness that can be touched. Darkness that enshrouds. I’ll rip a little bit of it and wear its black as a crown for pain. The rest I shall stuff in the voids of my soul to make me feel whole. A tear then two. Torrents from a clouded soul. Rushing breath and muffled heaves.Oh, that I had the patience of the Biblical Ayub. Oh, that this night was subtle then I wouldn’t be lying out here in the cold with my hair full of dust. I wouldn't be here sprawled on the ground with a knife on my left hand and