He was the stoic.
Dark clouds simmered
pent-up irks dripped occasional drops
until a stream of bile broke through.
Thunder rolled
in a whirling microburst.
Words spewed and spat,
scarred and seared their hearts.
Quiet seeped in like bone chilling fog
smothered senses and eroded trust.
The gulf widened at forever high tide
bridge collapsed, gone
no crossing, no return.
lillian the home poet 
Morning Lillian.
I’m not supposed to be on WP ’til Sun eve but I’m up early and figured what the heck 🙂
Your words here evoke such powerful and crystal-dark imagery – love the intensity and ‘personified’ weather –
Wondrous weekend to you, my friend 🙂
am:)
ps I don’t subscribe to mags ever but for some reason ‘O’ magazine started coming to my mailbox. I finally opened an issue and wouldn’t you know I opened right to the, Reading Room section – anyway there was an article about a woman who began penning poems in her 90’s – she lived to 107. The article provides a tiny snippet of one piece and it sounds spectacular. I’m getting the book and thought I’d pass on the info for whatever it’s worth – Poems from the Pond by Peggy Freydberg
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Rainy morning here — your words provided some sunshine 🙂
Will look up Peggy Freydberg…..think I read an article and obituary about her….we should all be so articulate in our later years! 🙂
PS: take time to play this weekend!
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