adventures in dysthymia

Monday, August 19, 2013

Wordless, a poem

Wordless

Time disappears into
the insistent rain
and now might be tomorrow
or an hour ago,

marked only by the clock
of opaque windows, the tick
of dripping eaves. I am
as formless as the gray

taste of this day, washed
clean and purposeless.
As the birds, I huddle
stilled, my song forgotten,

while the wordless rain
murmurs against the roof.
No shadows lie between
me and my horizons;

has storm darkened the fields
or does night come at last?
All answers lie in sleep
and the morning sun.

Stephen Brooke ©2013

A bit of accentual verse mostly written last night in bed on my laptop. Three steady days of rain will lead to this sort of thing.

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