Night time calls, the dark color in the window,
heartbreak beckons, teases emotions, slows time.
The outcasts, alone and wandering, move slow,
the four empty walls close in, their prisons within.
So their energy is spent, disappearing into rhyme,
hiding in the forest of words, there, waning thin.
The strings of the instrument move easily, tense,
yet the emotion flows freely, in conflict and verse.
The breath of music, thoughts in motion, sense,
the palette of the mind and heart in eternal warfare.
The wind moves the leaves, both fluid and terse,
to find rapture in chaos, in the soul's love affair.
Some breath moves the tree, seasons changing,
searching by moonlit passions, its stark silhouette.
A voice cries out, its simple phrase left hanging,
an unresolved love, an indictment, a hidden name.
Bear with these the burden, an unnamed threat,
where our confidence is shaken and the same.
Patience, silent patience is ours for the making,
to hold a look, in distances between, in moments.
Hold them now before our hearts are breaking,
hold every light in the darkness, before we awaken.
Joy so dear bearing resemblance to the torments,
in brief separations, not for a moment forsaken.
Brian Francis Hudon
November 9, 2014