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