A Life in the Day

Good morn to you my son,

Clouded and gray as it may be.

The blackened sky, forsaken by

The cheery melodies of springs first flock,

Towers dubiously above your frail and wretched

Form.

Kneeling there alone, on the cold and muddy

Earth of early spring, your head

Down and eyes shut tight.

You remember what he said. You remember

What he did. The burning hot pain

Searing through your heart,

Suffocating you as you choke

Back your incessant sobs.

Gold tears spring forth profusely

From your steely eyes and

Mingle with the newly fallen raindrops

On your pallid cheeks.

Why does he hurt me?

You ask yourself.

Because Imperfection is inexcusable

And his only pride is in the superficial gleam of his possessions.

Pulling in a breath, you rise to stand and walk away,

Proclaiming with desperate determination

"I will be."

Good noon young sir,

It seems the heavens have found quarrel.

Do not the sun's golden arrows

Plunge into the stains of the earth?

Certainly!

They fly determinately, shredding

The vile and dirty covering that dares,

With much depth and force, to cover

Your eyes. One lucky arrow pierces through and

Into your heart, opening your eyes to see

The summer violets in full bloom.

But the mornings chill stands

Tenaciously against the passion of

Brute seasons.

And so, your purple flowers cling only

To this red season.

Yet still, tenderly both the season and the flower call to you,

Pleading you, to cast away the vapid and ungarding

Cloud that hides away your sharp beauty,

And to follow in their bursting joys.

Out of love, they make for you a refuge

Within their love. This, a place to

Discover the truths once shrouded in youths

Long since gone. Thus, you for love of flower,

Yet more for love of season, did say

"I will follow."

Good evening great sir.

The day is dieing in the victory of a battle

Fought hard. It's glory shinning in the emerald

Stars and scarlet bands which adorn its

Golden crown.

You smile as it carries

With it still the warmth of seasons gone

And the fragrance of flowers long since departed.

Your strong and skilled smile,

Etched lovingly upon your fair countenance,

Roams freely and with ease.

The days that have died

Fall about your person, blown down

By the last weak breaths of his curses.

The breeze is not sharp with winter chill,

But dull with overuse.

It now does nothing more than remind you

Of your new warm jacket and it's soft embrace.

Your promenade

Upon the autumn leaves ends swiftly on

The walk-ways' entrance as the twilights first stars

Awaken from their slumber.

There, the precious grass breaths green for a time yet

And is untouched by the colors of decay.

You walk out of the veiled elements

With the willingness acquired of age,

Into the hearting light of all that

You've come to hold dear.

And just before you've shut away with a heartbeat

You expel a content sigh,

"I am home."

"Goodnight sweet prince

And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!"

-William Shakespeare's "Hamlet"