Storm clouds bleed and render earth to mud.
We lie inside, assaulted by the lies,
Tightly bound in gray dismality.
Somewhere a distant, lonely whisper dies,
Not merely unremembered, never heard.
A great poem, like you said a bit dark, but illness will do that to you, the words relate well to your illness, I don't know if that was your intention but to me you can relate it to it. I wish you a full and speedy recovery.
Great poem with a strong and soft sense of emotions. Great write. Strong metaphor.
Awake... or awakened, in the early hours of an approaching new-day... by a storm (of life, perhaps?): the old thoughts of a loss, or something missed, they do not rest; what a grand (very grand!) description that third line is! Perhaps that distant, lonely whisper was the only thing that could have truly unwrapped the gray dismality? One must wonder. - There is a genuine, earthy pathos in this ephemeral poem; like a scent passing on the breeze it seems to bring a deep memory of something very special, but just out of sight. Haunting. Maybe, at 3: 21 am, I too have, just briefly, had this thought, somewhere in the more compassionate depths of my hidden humanity... maybe...
R G Bell, it's wonderful to see you writing again. It is good, but quite dark... I hope you will have reason to be inspired to write something more cheerful soon. You have admirable poetry writing skills. Best of luck to you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Says a lot in few words..wrapped in gray dismality; memorable line.