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L. B. Mek

In the Quite

In the Quiet, I often hear

whistling whispers of stifled peace

to know, to have seen - through

to taste and have been served

a plateful, for a life: full

of youthful blunder or silver haired bluster.

 

I, dance with the glistening pearls

within a pocketful of hurricane shells 

handful sized twisters, jostling 

gushing waves of murky - Seabed truths  

into forefront strands of pinprick thoughts

musings, of yesteryear haunts

 

of friends 

scintillating conversations intertwined

with bitter frustrations

to, happenstance gifted scenes 

of life-affirming Spring blossoms

within Winter’s tailwinds

 

of she, such beauty wrapped in effortless grace

as aching fingers yearn

for one more - once more: of everything, once mistaken for certain  

to have it returned with those parting clouds

that herald - an end to monsoon seasons, beckoning 

a landing strip of Sunshine warmth in forgiveness’ arms

 

of dreams, whimpering in corners

carpeted with unjust failures

lost - amongst life’s: coiled corridors.

 

A thread tugs, at ashen lips

as despair’s crusts - melt away 

with a quick sip of sugared comforts

as tired bleak reverie - swivels

to those sweet remnants 

of all the good bestowed - by all the givers

who tattooed and armed this unworthy heart

with strength enough, to keep on smiling

lost - in those echoes: of youth’s harvested mementos. 

 

 

© L. B. Mek 

August 2020