Untitled (Anger Ebbing?) (Rough Draft)

Anger’s shillouette
ebbs.
Beneath the lighting,
leaving no trace
when it passes, save
this empty silence

and atmosphere disturbed,
like there was once
an occupant for
this void.

And what now should fill it,
this empty, silent space –
altered,
warped from its conformity –
to make it uniform?

Will sadness fit the mold
left behind;
will its shadow stretch so far
and leave its mark distinct?

Let it fester,
and sadness has its day
– descending shellackings
– like rain pelting,
a trouncing of
blue ruin.

Yet just like rain, such woe 
ascends,
and with its ending reign
doth the remnants
of its terror
dissipate.

So then, what of Love?
Could its form shape
to the impressions left
within the air?

Bundle it tightly,
and hurl it far
into the air bereft;
and it shimmers therein,

its translucent glow
illuminating
and warping

the mold of emptiness,
forming into
such a vice profound
that it still does not

conform

but becomes
that which
the atmosphere
conforms to.

ⓒ Marie Meyers, 2014

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