The Morning Came

[easyeverett]

We often walk around
our city block
with hand in hand,
long thin fingers interlocked;
a living sculptured glove of unity and love.

Time like flimsy fabric
flies the wind
of whimsy blowing
far too fast past dimmed
and artificial light
as lovers rage against the night.

Ornate facades
of architecture crumble
down to dust
swept up with coffee cups
in humble
acquisition
to time's neutral imposition.

No children play
upon these streets all day,
their frozen faces hide behind
the window panes of gray,
no stares as our two pairs
of feet walk over cracked concrete.

Voices echo from an era long ago
when people made the streets aglow
with happy salutation and elation.

Our whispered words
are shared with ghosts
who float somewhere
above the shiver and the chill
that fills each flutter of night air;
come to remind us dust
once prime
returns to dust in time.

We find our mind
can travel to and through
the blue burn stars
but soon we learn our mind returns
to emptiness that burns.

We walk and talk awhile
then fade from view,
our time to share the air
on earth is through,
as we become but echoes
of our own brief past at last.

The morning came and gray skies galvanized
as bold explosive thunder's rumble threatened
to erupt in bucket after bucket of torrential and
tenacious rain now bound to fall upon the ground.
Soon rain will load the rising river flow until
a muddy flood of putrid water soaks the gully-wash
and saturated grassland plain.