a dream full of Sunsets

When I am blind,
you’ll find me listening to daybreak
one distant birdsong at a time.
Tell me, then, how purple dawns
fade into soft waking red, how
golden cloud-feathers of a dragon bird
warm my trembling fingers, tell me,
about blue sky and blue wind and bluer sea-
when i scour my memory with each deep breath
of salted breeze for its overwhelming majesty
and listen to blue breaking waves of an ocean
I once knew by heart, tell me
how they rise tall into blinding blue skies,
then crumble into salt and foam, like sandcastles
at my fingertips; remind me
of laughter every now and then, so
i’ll remember breathless joy
in the crinkled corners of your bright eyes,
golden-snow sunshine in the wind.
And don’t ever let me forget
crystal waters of mountain streams, bubbling
in faery-tongues i will recognize no more, please
tell me, again, about sun-painted pine-cones,
sunset-lit valleys, carpeted in cool and glossy pine-needles,
memories of running and slipping and falling
and laughter, and tell me, again, about sunsets –
the windswept, the clouded, the feathered, the pastel,
the fiery, and tell me all the stories of
coral red clouds and golden skies;
I have a soul full of words, a dream full of sunsets,
and stars, they keep me alive; do
help me remember these ever-changing curves of o,
offset-dotted i, and T that branches out into our stormy sky,
soft glitter of scribbled pencil marks
by candlelight and sweet coffee,
and temporary darkness; when you find me
by an open window, cool drops of ink
obscuring my trembling hands, I will be
gazing, unseeing, at a falling half-moon
who will watch, blind as i, over my
paint-stained memories of a lifetime-
do tell me, then, how our starlit inked words
now sink quietly into white paper.

T. E. Pyrus

Advertisements

agony

thunder echoes softly like an offset heartbeat
as a storm gasps for breath in between
greying treetops, trembling like senility,
raging like broken white lightning
over prim, painted homes,
arching, groveling, begging, pleading
for hollow recognition
through these crooked curtains;
i watch silent candlelight
reflect in cold window glass
and softened stillness.

T. E. Pyrus