FogCat

Friend In Troubled Times

Dark is the sound from the breast of the storm;
Throb of the soul on the point of a thorn.
Down with the dreams that would hold through the night.
Harsh is the call of the crow’s dark delight.

Yet dripping, slipping,
Silent in the night,
Comes a hug with a smile,
Comes the long last-awhile.

And sipping, tipping
Curl-locks back from eyes,
Comes a scent of sweet tea,
Comes the true harmony.

Tight is the fist that retells every lie.
Rust is the flesh that refuses to fly.
Long in the night that would hold every tear
Sound that is song trills a note through the fear.

Then breaking, shaking,
Laughter from the hole,
Comes abandonment-delight,
Comes a smile that’s all right.

The End

16 comments about this poem Feed