brazen, and sublime

it’s a cold wind
from the west tonight
not a wolf’s howl
nor a fool’s whistle
but a dark tide’s swell
a rolling rhythm
of haunting souls
their mingling moans–
tho understood, each still known
and then each–
becoming muddled with the next
and betwixt, an absence
a silence, wishing to be filled
the next crashing curl’s arrival
and from their mournful requiem
I learn, each evening
that even in passing
this ache– never leaves us
mercy’s cold touch brings shivers
as her frigid fingers
claw though my skin
pulling me under
and even here, submerged
into this black sea of memories
I’ve become a trespasser
a leering voyeur
and a timorous confessor
a villainous traitor
aye, a writer
but never a liar
when truth matters
tho too many
of these love poems
are written
in past tense
and tho this morn–
a shimmering-crimson oval
wounded black-night’s sky
thrusting its torch-wrap fire
through forever’s darkness
’twas brazen, and sublime

15 Replies to “brazen, and sublime”

  1. “I learn, each evening
    that even in passing
    this ache– never leaves us”

    Am a bit predisposed to weepy this morn: the above lines really really hit home for me …


  2. ” I have become a trespasser unwelcome..”
    These lines onwards…I read it more than twice, but still can’t find proper words to explain its beauty…This poem Just got etched in my heart!
    I learn a lot from you, Eric..You are n effortless genius!

    Liked by 1 person

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