Young Writers Society

Gray morning

I woke when the moon was low,
But the stars were still Bright
And the sky is still dark out my window. It was quickly graying
Though, I never like that time, I always fancied the sun was burning the night
To ashes. As if the stars, so bright, had promised silence, and the sun was imputnently betraying
Them. In that monochrome light I could see the trees sway when the wind would blow.

I rose from my bed.
My ceiling fan had chilled the air and I shivered.
I quickly stepped out of the covers and dressed.
My clothes were simple, jeans and a shirt, black and rivered
Across with white. As I left my bedroom I took a book off my shelf; I always ate breakfast while I read.
It was a lazy morning, but I had lunch with my girlfriend and the clock made me feel pressed.

I finished breakfast around ten
And milled about my house, freshening myself and straightening out my room.
I hummed to myself as I did all that. I could barely hear myself over the vacuum,
But it hardly mattered—I was alone anyway.
It was two o’clock when my timer buzzed, I jolted then.
I had been waiting the whole week for today.

My girlfriend and I had talked about it, it wasn’t hard thing to pick
We decided a lunch date would be the best time for us to meet.
So I was thankful for the early spring breaths of heat,
I found eating outdoors so much more romantic.
The sun was bright, it usually is in the afternoon, and quite temperate.
Though the sky was bright, the sky’s temper seemed only moderate,

With all those gray clouds it was nearly overcast
It was only human to worry for rain,
As I got into my car and pulled out it seemed the clouds had grown more worryingly massed.
My thoughts were all on the cars and the only half-competent drivers as I pulled onto a busier lane.
When I braked at a stoplight, I turned on the radio.
And listened to the mundane chatter until I parked and met my girlfriend on the patio.

The meeting went well, we hugged
And we talked, by the end I felt as if I’d been drugged.
It didn’t help that I had woke so early
As I turned into my driveway, I remembered the necklace she was wearing (I had given it to her), gleaming and pearly.
To be expected from pearls. When I entered my house I drowsing, it wasn’t that they day had been boring,
Perhaps even the opposite. I fell asleep calm, thinking of the gray morning.

A poem of sleep for my beloved:

Goodnight, my love,
My hopeful heart,
Goodnight my queen,
Who raises my throat with longing.

Goodnight my wingless angel of shade,
Who smiles at me,
A statue carved of mist
With wings of bowed color
That shimmer like waterfall mist.

Goodnight my smiling dream,
Whose moving for still eludes me,
Goodnight my comforting thought.
Goodnight my Morningstar,
Goodnight.

A confession:

I must confess
That you know nothing.
Nothing of my paramour,
Nothing of the swoons we shared.
When I was in the passenger seat.

Why don’t you know?
Well you don’t have the right.
You never have,
You only will
When you can do nothing of it,
When your words cannot build walls,
When your voice might not cause me misery.

I have no weight to dispel from my heart,
There is no need to relive it of this
For it is a glorious weight,
Like a blanket
To a rant prone, flighty mind.

I ask nothing of you in exchange for this confession,
Only I ask for peace,
And the allowance
for my love and my secret life to remain undisturbed.
Leave my sanctuary unfettered I implore you.
Let me live, sane, healthy, proud and in love.

The encroaching shadows grew ever more near
And if I care to strain my ear
I can hear the words:
“Come into the shade,
For your debts to this world have been paid.”

“Indeed, though paid they may be,
It only means that I may be free.”
I answered.
“Not so. Your debt was paid upon our loan
And your interest in the other world must be paid.” The shadows countered in a breathy moan.

“But must I pay?”
I asked, fear growing in my heart “must I leave, why may I not see the gray breaking day?
What law cuts my mortal anchor?”
The shadows laughed at me.
“It is not for us to say not for you to see.”

I sighed. “If you must take this collect this debt,”
I said “than do so quickly, a bay you not let
Me struggle.” The shades laughed again
“It is not your place to ask.” It said
And placed upon my face a burning black mask.

Wasteland:

The trees do not sing
With the songs of birds.
They are bare and the wind does not roar
Through the branches.
There is no life left on the stoney gray plains—
No life to look up at the dust darkened sky.

The oceans are beds of garbage,
The rivers redended with rust
And blackened with oil.

The mountains still stand,
Unclothed and unmoving.
Frozen by man’s last laments.

Night:

In glorious fire it falls,
That blind, burning day.
When light would glare down,
unbidden and unrestrained.

Be gone!
Foul, garrulous day!

Make yourself silent
As the silver eyed night draws near.

And so she comes,
through the curtains of gloaming
In her diamond speckled dress,
She sings silently,

Drawing the waves to shore,
And sailing men into sleep.