Wednesday, December 9, 2015

Maybe It Is The Color of the Quietness of Dark...

Maybe it is the color of the quietness of dark
It fills in all the spaces leaving naught but thought to think
A wanderer that needs no shoes; a balladeer of hearts
A hunter ever scaling heights to wrestle into ink

Maybe it is the miles that disappear beneath the tread
As retrospect and prospect vie for precedence full-force
And isn’t it uncanny, all the roads inside a head?
Where thought is a lone rider on a brave, gossamer horse

Maybe it is the kiss of all we miss that keens the will
Of quill unqualified in matters never set to word
Yet, when the lea turns ebony and everything is still
Thought ravages its passages with intent undeterred

Maybe it is the way that worlds, familiar by day
Are washed from every window as the landscape disappears
Yet unveils behind thought-wide eyes an uncharted highway  
Where horse and rider traverse and reimburse fallen tears

© Janet Martin

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