The Veil

See you in the morning,
But to reassure is to lie,
As that familiar cold touch,
Burdened me with knowing,
That I should never again,
See the light of morning.

An accepting goodbye,
Before the fear,
Of letting go,
And to fade from myself,
Into another.

Abandon the shell,
The mask of impurity,
As a ship overthrown by mutiny,
You never truly knew me,
And you never once will.

The birds sing into open air,
A fitting funeral march,
As the trees are hands reaching,
For the endless sky they cry,
Through blood-beaten branches.

The trauma stems from the root,
And the hawk soars,
In search of sorrow,
En route for pity,
But never knowing to dig.

The hawk is the traveler,
Of converging words,
From the misty lands between,
To what waits beyond the trees,
And dances across the stars.

High above,
The hawk rests with the mate,
Scanning dangers,
Protecting succession from,
Low below.

Two hawks,
Embellished in the sun,
Enemies of gravity,
As two of one,
Should never let go.

I stand on the road,
On the edge of tall grass,
With the companion of days past,
Ready to let go,
And soar further from the pine.

Standing here I remember,
Mechanisms devoted to stressors,
Regardless of interpretation,
None can escape time,
Only face the solace of 555.

I wanted life,
In my clothes,
Through my hair,
Under my skin,
And beyond my eyes.

They held the universe in their eyes,
But I was on the path to supernova,
Staring into that forever horizon,
That is increasingly flat,
Then as sudden as a snap.

The world is obscured by a white veil,
Suffocated by denied regrets,
No longer I,
But an idea,
Fading away.

Then the shock of life ever-lasting,
The veil tears through,
I am dropped down,
Into darkening despair,
But a light shines true.

From light out of darkness,
I am encompassed in a loving warmth,
Thrown from the veil,
A sculpture with no name or detail,
I am begotten again.

Donovan Whitaker