Something very alluring about brooding
skies
that pries out the best and the worst in me.
Standing alone against the falling
horizon
a son is shaped, by the light and the shadow, into a long
black silhouette
against the faceless blue - an incomprehensible form yet,
somehow a unique
profile
standing file, a lone soldier, upright against the face
of the impending rains.
Yes, those rains, the ones that fill the ageless
river
that quivers and flows from the eyes of mother;
contouring deep gouged channels of rejection – into the
sheared rock
beds
of dreads; forces that rampage life crafts along her
raging waters.
One must not fear the rumble of the accusing thunder nor
flinch at the stinging
smite
that bites like sharp tongues striking at the highest
points with arrays of jagged light.
Sister Torquemada’s sepulchral gaze crosses the room and
consumes
the space
her face closes the many blinds - so to shut out the lost
years.
Pupils are placed into darkness – sentenced to learn to
love
silence
and defiance - becomes a way to see into the darkness of
a small cave
where the light is from the candle of self-awareness and
the
fire
rises higher from the edges of the night across the
mountain side bringing
the valley into the dawn of a new day; a new walk; a new
path.
