Ashen storm clouds brew between furrows on his brow.
Catastrophe awaits luminous tears well,
yet again, in her oval eyes.
Mania mounts his visage; her son’s brow creases.
Cringing, she collapses to the sidewalk
leans against the cold glass of the sky scraper.
The wind’s shrill whistle carries away
turbulent inflections of anger.
The injustice of it all
hammers at the crown of his head,
preaching to the choir of her, he trembles.
Bent and brazen, relentless in his mania, words spew,
creating a tumult of sorrow upon her waiting ears;
reviving past images of other foolish martyrs and the flames.
Spent now, the orderly disorder of
angst relieved on wind, and womb,
in the ear of ever forgiving love; he sighs.
The sea calls through the salt of her tears,
untwining the hyper-vigilance,
focusing the pip in a caring core.
Harbor views sooth with gull cries,
summer soundings, gentle heated revelries,
love rises like a forgotten lullaby
on the cockles of their hearts.