A Spring Lament
For days, it has been raining,
Mists of chaos in a pastoral
painting,
Masterpiece of the gallery
inside my head.
The sun hides in swirling clouds
of black,
And the sheep, by thunder's
deafening wrath,
Have all been mercilessly struck
dead.
The grass is of a morbid yellow,
And the wild daisies no longer
grow,
Burried under the weight of
their own petals.
There are no leading shepherd
in sight;
No little lamb, only a tyger
burning bright
Which feasts on the lost souls
of mortals.
Spring's light falls prey to darkness
While suddenly birds become
songless,
And the scent of morning dew
lingers no more.
In the once green valley, not
a soul walks,
But a life-hungry beast, in
shadow, stalks,
Turning leaves to brown with
the sound of its roar.
Through withering flowers and thundering wind,
Stuggling to keep its last
drop of sunshine within,
A heart roams amidst the earth's
crumbling beauty;
As an artist with no more blue
skies left to paint,
Or a shepherd guided by a star
much too faint,
The heart awaits,
Hopeful still,
For Spring to resurrect
Human Nature's sacrificed creativity.