An Illustration of Restoration
April proves to be the cruelest month
The dreary skies compliment the sentiments eroding a tattered heart
Leaving diluted metaphors interpreted through the poet’s voice
A mist awakens covering the moonlit sky, depicting a scene of weariness
Time slows… to the progression of the unsettled clouds
Guided by the cadenced patterns of the wind
A young lad sits, swaying to and fro on the porch swing
A downcast heart saddens the tempo of the composition being played,
It’s begun to resonate, unmistakably harmonized
As if composed by the master artist himself, so tenderly woven into time
Crafted with a thread of serenity that has proven to sooth the melody
The talent of the master artist overwhelms the scene, yet his voice remains unheard…unspoken
As the young lad persists…swinging, back and forth on the porch swing
The storyteller once said, that there were no unhappy endings
Every narrative ever told encloses a symbol of goodness, something that’s meant to be heard
The narrator dictates the story into existence, claiming his mastery over the scene
Along with it, he carries our hearts, our minds … and our souls
We’re lost in a reverie, far beyond our thoughts intentions
Unknowingly attached to an ideal principle of reality,
Obscured by the risen ashes of the volcano
Blurring the normality of a bent world
Natural tendencies collide with the idyllic habits of the storyteller
The avalanche is closing in, with every intention to deconstruct the minds of a world troubled
Inhabited by the sleep-walkers…caught in their dismal like trance
A legend of old tells of a divine storyteller, one bound by nothing but himself
The words emanated from His mouth create a lasting impression
Upon a race that is raped by egotism, left with broken pieces of glass that once formed an identity
Now tended by the glass-maker,
Positioning each piece gently into the oven, to be refined by the fire
Left in its transparency before the maker
Time has consumed all that once was, like a cataract engulfs the water below
The dullest moments in life leave us with something to reminisce
As if a picture had been painted in the memory, scene after scene
The images remain untouched, guarded by time itself
As the memoirs linger in the mind, newness deadens what has been left behind
Like the wildflowers in their blossom out of the blackness of the field
An illustration of restoration
