7
May

Sadness, a mere breath away, joins us as we gasp for unburdened air and in moments only just past, were skies clear and crisp in abandoned gay. As we gaze at a flat horizon, stormy mists swirl and gather across, empty and vacant skies. Filling the quiet seas of blue with angry, leering grey, grey which threatens to weep, weep the wretchedness of heaven lost, in tears of solidarity with the plight of an ordinary day. Wishing to wash, wash us from the happiness we cling to, but can never fulfill or attain. It remains in our hearts as dream, ever reminiscent of what could be or might have been. Angels of a shameful heaven, lash us with promises and appeal us with thoughts and ideals, in visions of a world that resemble peaches and cream; all the while distracting our intentions to live with the what is, with apparitions of the carefree. Whispering the poppy rich violets, blues, oranges and reds, into ears drawn heavy from the anguished cries of frightened and troubled child. Seducing the heart with opiate dreams, luring us away from real and muddy and earthly soil, which carries weariness of blood and toil, from our aching feet.

As we lust for unrequited dream, the thunder shudders and roars in solemn sky. Furious and vicious and savage lights, whip at the darkened sky. The storm has come! It hath awakened us from insouciant desire and fitful sleep. It shakes us with vivid clarity and in earnest do we now despair, the soft dreams of deception, lost and vanished inside clouds of heavy, dank lair. Grey envelops our feeble senses, inviting and demanding that we may share, in the truth it wishes to speak and again do we now despair. We listen. We cower, quivering and afraid, afraid that the dark will smother and consume us and oh how we long, long for poppy cradle of painless slumber, so we may not despair. But alone we are now, alone in omniscient grey and in fear we struggle and pit, against haunting wails and ghosts which beckon and call us; in tearful cognisance do we now embrace, embrace the true and real, amidst sleeting grey.

At last the storm abates and alone we now understand, having learnt of oft spoke lies, lies of angels heaven sent, from lofty skies. In tribute to rebel lands afar, we summon truth, truth which grey has adorned us and no longer do poppy fields float in wondrous willows of sleepy haze. As we shed tears in melancholic grief, befallen yesterday in the moments of sorrow, sorrow for mother who hath suffered in the hands of lofty heaven and angels of wind swept lies, we begin to stand and make our journey through uncertainty, fear and the decrepit wind swept lies. We walk upon the earth and cherish the mother, our mother of dust and sand, river and ocean, who nourishes with the cool anointing rain. Through bleakness and in despair, we have come to love the true and real, painted from bristles of grey. We have life, spun in webs of sorrow, glistening misty in grief, but it is naught now that the grey has cast its shadow to mark the sure and just way.

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