Spoils of grief

Morning shines off the bard with hair still gray

a lilting voice that quivers from tales of far away

people gather and listen with awe

he too sees the lips move but listens to the silence,

deafened by the incessant whispers of his grief.


Day breaks in without notice

men trapped in their lives and with much malice

they move with purpose matching the determined sun in its ascent

unmoved though he wonders, of life, universe and everything deep,

wasted, he lies tired with the gentle toils of his grief.


Earthy fumes from raindrops falling on

the dusky fields from ages dried

as they rise to compete with smoky pots

those evening cauldrons of the veiled brides

reminiscing on the memories of a love so brief

he suffocates with the nauseating whiffs of his grief.


Moonlit nights of countless bliss

cloud the eyes with a not so unknown mist

and the dreams blossom in the gentle breeze

but in the midst of fighting the demons and reaching the heavens

he wakes up to face the staring eyes of phantoms of his grief.


21 thoughts on “Spoils of grief

  1. “Earthy fumes from raindrops falling on,
    dusky fields from ages dried,
    They rise to compete with smoky pots,
    evening cauldrons of the veiled bride.”

    This piece has words that drip like dew drops from the ends of sun kissed leaves!

    Liked by 1 person

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