Those things were once beautiful <br />When they were young and holding hands. <br />Now they are speared at the sides <br />And give little struggles <br />Though it is never in the direction <br />They once laid down towards. <br />And far, far above <br />The sun still burns, like a lantern <br />Keeping watch in the loft of a barn <br />Where a blonde angel sleeps out of the <br />Rain in the place where inhabited lovers once joined. <br />Here, her quiet light lingers <br />Wavering like incandescent waves <br />Of the desire now smoldering over muted <br />Flesh, the pearlescent avenues curious <br />Fingers strolled for hours upon <br />And lips pressed furtively searching for <br />A definite meaning. Now her sea-curved <br />Limbs only wear the bucolic lingerie of <br />Her surroundings, like a virginless grotto <br />Painted without meaning, <br />The landscape of a lonely plot. <br />Wings clipped and darkened, <br />She searches for a deity as chaos <br />Swirls blacker, barking the thunder.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/barking-the-thunder/
