memoir, 24.3

Like the aftershock of a tidal wave -
The cold, wet sea-spray that washes over
exposed skin and hitched breaths,
gasping for air as I climb to the surface
of a world flooded with salt water
that rose from an ocean
stretching thousands of miles away,
hundreds of days ago,
now a stuttered breath away.

Sonnet 3

I wish my thoughts would take notes from the stars;
How marvellously still and sure they hold,
They shine so bright despite how far they are,
And though they might be dead they're not yet cold.
I wish they'd learn how constellations form,
How tiny dots become such wondrous shapes
Despite the fact that on one dot rage storms,
And on another silent calmness drapes.
I long for order in my bustling mind,
I long for stillness, sureness of my thoughts,
I long for ponderings that gleam and shine,
Not for this meaningless array of dots.
And yet, although I wish this every day,
My thoughts remain a messy disarray.

*

Inspired by the song Stars from the musical Les Miserables, to be precise, these lines:

"You know your place in the sky,You hold your course and your aim,And each in your seasons returns and returns,And is always the same."

Sonnet 2

It's been too long since I have faked a smile
For so long I've not had a reason to
But lately reasons seem to pile and pile
And I feel like there's nothing I can do
Except for faking smiles and happiness
And acting as if everything's okay
I'll try not to give in to helplessness
And tell myself it's just another day
Until this feeling passes and I'm fine
Until I cry some tears that truly help
Until I'll have some blessed peace of mind
Until there's blessed quiet in my head.
And when there is, I'll fall, a messy heap-
Into and endless, quiet, dreamless sleep.

Dawn

You know, I was sitting by a tree the other day
Watching the black of the sky turn to navy, nearly entirely fading away;
It wasn't lit anymore by fluorescent salt and a knowing grin...
It was changed to ultramarine, and the stars were weak and thin.

Ashen, like the inside of a dead match- the indescribable complexion,
There, but hard to see, intermingling like a determined infection,
But growing warmer with a funny sort of Russian blue hue poking through its convalescence...,
And stabbed with a golden spear thrown by its daily acquaintance.

Chastising the dark- like a mother- before it escaped into shadowy folds,
But still chased- and embraced- in the lovingly serene mother blue and happy golds,
Smothering my half of the world in endless pursuit of the rebellious night,
And, in the meantime, giving me and my book a helpful light.