Color the Gray
In that gray place, trimmed with dying bouquets, the sense of yesterday can drown today. Brush my fingertips ‘cross revered phrase, and barely keep the memories at bay. Now I find myself respecting the dead. I can walk among them and not look back. The living still have disguises to shed…oh, do they stumble when that veneer cracks.
Still a bite to the breeze and snow piled high, but I’m a better person by your side. For these few precious moments, I can cry…missing you – mentor of my inner guide. Now that I’m here, I truly have to ask: Is it true the world can swallow me whole? On a hook in the closet hangs my mask; milady’s knight enough to bare her soul.
That woman comes everyday at three. Some drops her umbrella’s not deflected. Drizzle-away the tears so none can see…then pauses at a stone just erected. She touches the tip of her cane to stone and glances skyward as if in prayer. Maybe she traces a fresh epitome…. Maybe her soul is courageously bared…. Yet, I know she feels that sense of something. This cemetery’s where life’s secrets lay. But this somber place is just so haunting...flowered respects merely color the gray.
Copyright March 9, 2011 © Sheila Roy
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How empathetic you are! How adept at putting readers t h e r e.
We feel the inscription in the cold stone and hear the snow crunch under our feet. The umbrella, the tears. . .sadness and the rush
of memories.
B R A V A !!
xOx Phyllis xOx
Axilea
a scene worthy of a created piece
and you have done so
Thank you for sharing
most enjoyable read
Love & Peace be with you
William
Reminds me of a beetles song.
Yet, this may sound weird. But just up road I spend many hours in a church grave yard, enjoying the peace and lamenting of the gentle folk whose bodies now reside in the church, built in 974, but you can only read graves from the 1100's due to weathering. Death's only a beginning anyhow. Like you, I get inspired in that church and yard, with its ancient yew trees of 4000 years or more.
You never disappoint youngen! xx
Anna
Be always safe,
Karen
the place, the figure of the woman - creates the
absolutely evocative atmosphere and spiritual dimension
intended. i'm saving this, Sheila.
In admiration,
John
Amor
Regis
You tender poetry concerning the woman and the secrets within this hallowed place was excellent.
George
fee
You confront mortality in an intimate way, and with tears and colors reach our hearts where the feelings come alive to contemplate.
Blessings,
Christine