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Black

Once again, I find the days
are framed in funeral black.
Mine eyes of grey cannot convey
the colours that they lack.

So I cross the breeze to the silver trees
that have all but lost their sheen.
Too tense to yawn, I swallow the dawn
and reflect in the still-born stream.

Like a scar, I bear your star
now gone supernova.
Yet the falling rain won't forget your name
and whispers it over and over.

Editing stage: 
Content level: 
Not Explicit Content

Comments

I'm looking at this as the story of a lost love. Yes, I can see the days looking a funeral-black, without the colors of a day filled with love. Good rhyming and scansion. ~ Geez.
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I think every word here is needed, there is nothing to lessen the impact. The internal rhymes work very well and the imagery, although common, doesn't feel cliched. Only one word stands out to me - "mine." The rest of the poem is in natural, modern language. Why not "my"? Mine feels like an anachronism. I'm not crazy about the title. As a little stream of consciousness, this poem makes me think of a pregnant widow.

A very touching piece, this.

I feel sure that Those of us that are in the midst of that part of life, called being a part of the dying of a loved one, sense this piece in a large way.

I look forward to reading more of your work.

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