Gazing out the window, was never so hurting before - disturbance that well the eyes and the heart roars, a song of melancholy hums from within - - no drop of hope the cloud gets; that could touch the skin. Watching patterns of clouds in puddles was fun before, tarred roads reflected on clouds today, making it look sore. Wish of a selfish me, was to see the crying clouds, I hoped to see the hope that wished me luck aloud. ... and then the drops poured down, in a gush to wet the ground, a melting heart, emotions drenched, dry me, but wet surround. I get to the edge, open windows, and allow the water in, the body soaked and so
the mind, in world of feelings akin - - Moist soil brings to me memories of the days bygone, for some time now, solitude is where I found the cozy zone. I believe clouds wished the same for me, water trickle down
my eyes, Earth rejoice the moments of now, while I celebrate past.
Squalls of wrecked
emotions and tears fight within for
fear - to stop the storm
of solitude; sojourn in abode
of peace. Wandering through rough
cold path, no more depression
and wrath. Mind - - nude; finding abode of peace. In response to photo challenge#168 at MLMM and Quadrille#34 at dVerse poets pub
PC: Paul Whitener (1911-1959) Big Bluff of Humpback Mountain, 1955, Oil
A voice echoes from the depth of this art,
“his” wishful perseverance to marvel a craft.
In its silence is hidden a message so worth,
colourful extravaganza is not for earth -
effortless, subtle and unblemished beauty,
hues of green’s enough to make it pretty.