Let it go.
An icy wind circles.
Certain not of why or where it sprang.
Frigid, piercing, cutting through the stoic, tough, upper lip.
Freezing the ego.
Standing on the precipice.
Looking out at shallow worlds.
The blue-cold stone of an ice age once past.
Granite-slate shivers my sense of reason,
wonders my aching heart.
As dreary as it feels, beneath the rolling grey clouds,
sleet swiftly falling onto shale.
It’s so cold out here,
the wind makes circles around my battered frame,
trashing at my cloth,
whistling melancholy haunts,
to stay me when old age has left me with nothing
more.
The grey melts into a thousand shades of black,
and black finds somewhere,
playing,
blues of all manner and hue,
happy, sad, tender, distraught,
flayed out into the works-of-waiting,
cold, as rock,
on a dreary winters day.
Such goes my my heart, when in it,
I see,
memories of the war I once parsed.
PoemsofaDad 