The mist rises:
It hangs like a tattered curtain over the meadow.
(Why must I lie here and wait for darkness...and for him?)
I view it from the grass.
The mist creeps:
It crawls over the flowers, curling and climbing above the trees.
It is cold; it is chilling; it has no feeling.
(Neither did he, my Night-Wing, who brought me to this place--with his sharp kisses and
promises of dark Eternity.)
I shiver in the grass.
The mist disappears:
It dances into nothingness under the warming fingers of the sun, dwindles into a wisp of gray
and...is gone.
(A prisoner, I wait--for the moon and its coldness to free me so he and I may touch again.)
I lay cold in the grass.
(This poem was written during my angst-filled university days. Under the title "Epitaf," it was featured in the February (second) issue of Sounds of the Night Magazine, 2008.)
I love it Toni. I always am intrigued by the mists of morning and late nite. Scary to a kid.
Very poetic. Excellent, Toni.
Mary is right...scary to a kid :)
Love the picture. Perfect for the piece.
And things that go bump in the night. Man, this sounds so like a vampire is gonna get somebody!
Scarlet--glancing over her shoulder
Now Mary knows what time I arrived home from the meeting!
Scarlet
Yes, I do, Scarlet. Glad you were there!
How did I miss that angst filled girl!
What a way with words.
Wow, Toni. You are so talented!
Excellent, atmospheric piece. Puts you right there with poor Lucy.