In which Your Humble Blogger returns to a familiar theme (because the familiar theme keeps returning to haunt her this year, grrr):
Mornings these days, I can see a half-moon
Of blue-black darkness, spreading like the bruise
Of a wasted sunset, above each cheek.
No, no one has turned a hand to me or
Done me any harm. None except myself.
The circles that I see are scar tissue,
The shadows of wounds I committed
Against myself every night that I lost
To work, television, any dumb thing
That was dimmer than the plans I once had.
If there is a horizon for these days,
It must be lost past my eyes, because the
Circle of wasted sunsets continue
To descend. They are obvious beyond
My broken mirrors of near-sleepless nights.
* * *
Images from this poem that I would keep and perhaps use elsewhere: "the bruise of a wasted sunset," "my broken mirrors of near-sleepless nights." Everything else can go. Out with ya!
More importantly, if you're in the path of a big, wicked storm, stay safe and dry this weekend, won't ya?