23 Oct 2019

We Are 138 #51 - Our Last Morning


The sluggish sun shakes off slumber,
stumbles to the sky.
You do not stir in the dappled grey
as in this bed you lie

Tresses kissed by errant rays,
spun gold upon the pillow.
A priceless gift fit for kings,
as in the breeze it billows.

The curving of your spine
Illuminates by degrees,
above the waves of wrinkled sheets,
a galleon on rough seas.

I tiptoe across our room,
peer out through the curtains.
Splendour dawns across the fields,
daybreak peeks uncertain.

Tentative in its approach,
knows it will be vying
with the light that shines from you,
softly gives up trying.

Sends cotton clouds to intercept,
block the competition.
Once your amber eyes alight,
the contest end is certain. 

Defeated sun surrenders
wailing drops of rain.
Shoulders bare, you stand and glow,
steal the light again.

Lance Fling is a published poet, author, and editor currently living in a house in the woods with his wife, two kids, four dogs, two birds, a cat, and a tortoise.

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