Pastel Tears

Funny how the holes and craters we dig ourselves
in a lifetime, become our eventual escape route.
Seems logical, since we dig them over and over again.

Sinister and ominous in its inception, now offers a twisted comfort.
I have my own cold mountains reflecting in a lonely black water’s edge.
And I surrounded this hell with the fated invasion of sticky clouds of desolation.

Not  white. Never white.

I have walked that hard packed sandy front too many times for it to faze me now.
I loved you, you know. Probably still do,
But I feel more alive in the center of that vast none-ness, than I feel these days in your presence.
When I go away, crouched on the flat rock, straining to hear anything but the angry
rumble above and inside . . . it says more to me than you have in any one of the lost twenty years
I mourn.
But here in all this gloom, a bow of slightest color will eventually bend and
I will see the white flight of life against the grayness.
 
Almost white, nearly white.

I will witness life crawl from the bleak breakwater and wait to sun itself on the adaptable beach.
Yellowing stars will emerge from the wet deep and point out the way to the Pastel arch's beginning.
Though I will start a long trek back up this decline, I remember I'm allowed to fill the holes.
Not be swallowed by them.

I loved you, you know.
Probably still do.


K. Mulroney