The Tone of Stormy Skies

Raucous silence stood between
the love that once seemed so alive,
between them. Two as one
could never stand against
the many hordes of all of them.

One unto another unto death -
so they had pledged - but no one
ever told them it would ever come
to this. Was it just their youthful
fantasies of strength that now endured
the suffering of growing old...?

This - the utter feelings they'd denied.
And all the unshed tears they'd never
dared to cry out loud before.
The screams they really needed,
left unuttered in the limbo that they lived.
Now emptiness was all that ever built
within the wings of procreation.

Stormy days of lightning flashes.
Thunder booming mightily within
a morbid strength of wind. It seemed
as if the rain would never end.
But then, they would recall that lately,
even sunny days for them would only
bring another sad refrain.

Memories of used-to-be
had grown so old and faded.
Dreams become a nightmare glare
that turned into another sullen stare
as dawn arrived. They, the members
of the highest numbers of regeneration
yet recorded by those hard and cruel
statistics that still held them all within
a feel of never knowing much.

Time had held them for a little while, sacrosanct.
Yet as they aged, the flowers all were spent
upon a something of less value than
the hearts that they had treasured
in their youth.

And where once their voices, in a unity
of harmony, decreed the answer no
to all the larger systems - now came an age
the experts named as just senility.
And so they fell. The silence held
within them - for unending years
of growing loneliness - had progressed
into a wound that festered deep inside of them.

The Fisher King...? No. More than only that.
It was more as if the only one that gave them
life in form had gone away. And no one ever
dared to name her queen - amid the great
soliloquies of men. Conclusion, as the closure
started in - she never could abide his pain for him,
or in his stead. And yet it seemed she never
would be dead and buried, there, within
the core of him.

Gray, the tone of stormy skies, that brought
the freshening. Men's pendulums had cooled
the heat of summer with the fear of ever growing
near enough to merely touch its opposite.
Imprecise, their mental chemistry.
Yet still, their battle cries were blistering.
Dry, the heat of desert's storms.
Warm, the womb of her indemnity...

? Michaelette ?

7/22/2003
Copyright© 2003 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
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