Rising Clouds

I feel at home within the gloom,
that clothes the light,
which once warmed this heart.
For a heart that’s broken,
more than once in life,
is difficult to mend.
Its fine fabric, worn thin.
Its torn edges flutter freely.
Broken off pieces spread out
upon the back of the gust of winds,
that span my mortal time.
No, false hope of mending does not lie,
within my boney outstretched grasp.
It has neither the will, nor the power,
to turn back the hands to a now forgotten time.
For knowledge of life’s lessons aren’t easily unlearned;
nor troubled thoughts that wish to stir, soon forgotten.
And so I blow the pieces on before me quickly,
wrapped within my cloak of gloom.
For, if I stop to gather them up,
to the four winds they’ll be blown.