Image for the poem Scirocco


music is poetry without words; poetry is the
melody of the spirit, struggling to dance.

thunder in the night is a symphony in itself. strobes of
lightning cast a dangerous thrill upon the rock concert
atmosphere. sometimes the sky doesn’t break, to release
its tearful tempest, & I wonder – where is the rain?

nights like this are made of sadistic memories; recalling
the face & the verses of a woman that I’d rather forget.
a time long ago when we would sing a crazy tune & dance
our dream, pretending the storm wouldn’t come along &
wash it all away.

she composed her heart’s passion on delicate stationery, &
offered her seductive poems to me, like Eve’s apple. maybe
to tempt me into falling in love with her. but what does a
soldier of misfortune like me know about love?

I’ve always been the jester in the queen’s court, the joker in
the deck, so I worried that her pretty words weren’t meant for
me, but for some other brooding stranger. I’d confront her
with my suspicion, & we’d argue violently about it. it was that
corroding doubt that finally drove her away.

she remains silent these days, fearful that the language of her
heart might be stolen from her very lips.

…a hot wind blows across me from the south, like a scirocco; it
keeps the air dry. there are no soothing drops to disparage my
reverie, or wet my cheeks. not even my tears.

but I know the storm will come.  it will come…

(Art by Belarmino Miranda)

Written by JohnFeddeler
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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