The Colourless Portrait Of A Lousy Song

Once more, the sky has lost her colour,

And her sun's regal glow dimmed to mimic Night.

The wind blows sores against my skin,

Foul with the stench of broken whispers.

I have trudged through a desert of withered trees

And waters: brown, black,

And bitter with the salt of fruitless toil,

Both from the labourer's pores,

And the windows of his maiden's soul.

I, paddling softly in the Styx of hopes,

listen quietly

As this wailing song forces

A land barren of rhythm to quake,

Rattling the hungry bones of skeleton boys and girls,

And dream-eating zombies in leather boots with worn souls

Into chaotic choreography:

Right hands on their chests & left hands over their eyes.

I, standing still in a field of wilted feathers,

Again,

Quietly watch a dying eagle chirp a slow diminuendo

As its petals fall from its wings, and it plummets into the ashes

Of the twigs where it once was nestled.

Perhaps, on some close-by tomorrow, 

Rain will mold these ashes

into a new pair of wings.

©Marcel