The Blood, the Pallor, and the Bruise

I.     Clouds: amber horizon
       Tinted by the setting sun
       Grey on blue on red

The bed was deep, covered white, flecks of crimson
On her head – the last of her covering.
Out in the hall: “Do not go with him, son,
The path beyond, the angel hovering,
None of them worth what you would leave behind.”
In the recesses she listens, soothed by
The reassurance that the pleas are whined
To someone else – no one in here will cry.
For the nearing cabby with sable coat
Who pilots the bus, the cab and ferry,
Must come for all. Though resistance is rote
The fact remains that few will yet tarry.
When the bus driver pulls o’er at your stop
The seat onboard won’t be one you would swap.

II.   All colors will run in the end
      Even the sunset by storm clouds will rend.

A shroud of blinding white
Crumpled in the corner on the floor
Left behind from where’t was wrapped tight.
One fate to weakness and to might
One fate only, and no more:
A shroud of blinding white
Yet death in the end, might
Die just the same and stay behind that door
Left behind from where’t was wrapped tight.
And if you find on that fateful night
That the fisherman waits for you on the shore
Holding a shroud of blinding white
If you find him, glowing bright
Join him there, in the fore
Join him there, and hold on tight.
Above the falls – grandiose height
Hold this out upon the oar:
A shroud of blinding white
Left behind from where’t was wrapped tight.

III.                  The thunder rolls
                       Icy rain falls
                       Glassy fire glows
                       The storm is nigh

Simply beautiful
Merciful skies over plains
Falling stars, burning
Amber waves of dying grain
Azure cities, crimson seas
Rowing to the shore
A captain without a crew
A nation without a king