Pale light, cast over many days,
spins illusions that bury truth and beauty
in abandoned cobwebs covered with
dust;
fades out every scene to grey
until sunlight becomes a
memory.
A bluffing wind is the only sound,
nothing but a parrot’s hollow shriek,
carried across the fallen trees’
branches,
unheard among blurred apparitions
drawn upon the slates of chilled, ashen
days.
Blazing
light, recalled, is obscure and deflected,
floats behind the eyes as shadows of the
past,
implies that truth is garish and
beauty fleeting.
The haze of
doubt is all that is known
and overcast images boast about being
out
of focus.
And thus, we
wander on cloudy days
among ghostly sprites, whose malice hovers
above the morning sun rise
and brings ill-fortune,
a plague, and the chaotic chants of
a grifter’s mistruths.
©cmheuer, November, 2021
