Where's My Head?

Mom always said I'd lose it...

Remembrance

Poetry

December 16, 2015

The blackest night,
the darkest day,
cannot conceal it.

Neither can such fog,
like ethereal cotton
above the morning dew,
shroud it from notice.

No veil can disguise
nor jailer constrain
its aspect
for it has,
if none other,
one elemental virtue.

To be known.

In its design, that goal
so devoutly entrenched
pushes it ever upward,
tunneling out
from the depths of obscurity,
screaming its existence
into the heedless silence.

Clambering to the surface,
it breaks forth
into the light of
an unsuspecting mind,
there to shine sun-bright,
refusing to be dowsed again.

And he smiles and says,
"Hey, I was just thinking about you."