on the morrow

outside, the wind rages,
carrying her swirling petticoats,
dancing far above me,
a speck on a small rock,
far below;
and all that I do not know,
falls and flies,
to and fro, like
dragonflies,
seemingly without purpose,
in this crazy, mixed-up circus,
that we call Life;
but tonight,
there is a silence
inside this room,
as your voice,
your laughter,
will not incandesce
this mess, this by-product
of generations
of largesse:
as I will sit, silently,
alone, wishing that
you were on the phone,
searching,
nurturing,
seeking,
always peeking
around a corner or two,
just being the "You"
of me and You,
the one meant,
and lived, as
True,
the one with a clear view
of a misty tomorrow,
the one with a rearview,
of unspeakable sorrow,
that we walked,
together;
and so tonight,
you must give due
to what is your duty,
and I know that this must
be so, this is the price
that I pay to be low,
downunder, below the
radar, but only to go so
far:
pledges, promises, vows,
loom large,
and we discharge our
obligations,
our obviations,
as mere eliminations
of what we wish were
not part of our emulations;

and so You go there,
while I wait here,
and we will meet again,
on the morrow.




October 7, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.