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
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,
always peeking
around a corner or two,
just being the "You"
of me and You,
the one meant,
and lived, as
the one with a clear view
of a misty tomorrow,
the one with a rearview,
of unspeakable sorrow,
that we walked,
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
pledges, promises, vows,
loom large,
and we discharge our
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.

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