Color of Parting Skies
I.
Dad says, "It's as true as the sky is blue."
When white clouds arrive to paint the sky,
above the wedding tables where I hide,
they change the light, the color, and the hue.
When cold rain flies in, it will grey that truth,
like the colors I'll wear down a wedding aisle.
When the sun rises, it explodes the light
from dark to white, blue, pink, and others too.
This I want to turn and dispute his fact
and catch his sky-blue eyes, steady as storms
that hurtle across the world, drowning rafts,
airplanes, and islands in unknowing wrath.
I would be next in its path to be torn,
II.
Lightning strikes during the late afternoon,
darkness seizes the skies, flashes of white,
drums of thunder, winds so fast that they bite,
and so I wait outside to be consumed.
Let the wind bite down and then rip me through,
let the darkness blind me and save my sight,
and let the lighting strike in painful light.
Wait for them to claim me, if not now, soon.
Then, I feel the rain. Cold but gentle touch
along my forearms and cradling my face.
And all those fantasies that I've contrived
begin to wash aside, down the gutter.
I drift along, eyes closed beneath the rain
that reminds me that I am still alive.
III.
A silent city before sunrise.
Night pulls back its starry curtains to sleep.
Day still stirring from the horizon's deep.
The ocean resting at bay yawns and sighs.
Darkness stretches, lounges along the sea.
A lone light upon a boat drifts nearby,
like a star peeking through the clouded sky.
Both of us alive when we should not be.
It pulls its horn and greets me like a friend,
so I wave at the shape drifting away,
carried by those soft, dark, and rolling waves.
We disappear from each other again,
as though we have known another for life.
I wave at the dawn's horizon light.
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