Egg-fried Lamentations;

What has it been?
Weeks pass - not
long enough - too long.

Today
a freak storm coated
the ground with hail - quarter inch
pebbles of ice falling
from heavens gone dark.

All winter
not a drop
of snow; then
today,
May Fourth,
weather gone mad
like his mind, temperatures
plummet and ice
falls.

Pouring
out now - freezing
cold and pouring.

The chanting
and the Floyd, the Cohen
and the Placebo, they scream
at each other
from the old Sherwood
and his mind races
from thought to thought picking
each idea up, turning it over
before the thought before
has been completely
dropped.

Been here
before - many times over
no peace, no order
to the chaos - until
they met.

The peace, the order? It only
ever came as Bones sat
to write thoughts - to, for,
her - will only come now
as he writes to, for, her.

But - leaving behind the dark,
and the cold that her brilliance
replaced briefly, light - she is gone
now. Letters, his only salvation.

Gone - there is none
to write to
now.

She would not have
his words anymore, and the mind
tears raggedly at each thought
like the jaws of the chipper
outside shredding the bones
of the trees leaving Bones
to the falling ice,
rain, darkness -

Silence;

And another plate
of egg-fried
lamentations.

_05-04-2010