From Famine to Feast

Like a fine mist dissolving on fingertips,

this moment slips. 

Black crow drops his feast. 

The irony, not lost on me. 

At the pinnacle of sweetness-one fleeting moment,

barely shifting, then being thrown into the next image-

Staring down a 100 foot oncoming wave when the eyes don’t blink. 

Flippin’ words, 

trippin’ on what I heard, polar opposites within one herd. 

Grew up on the blues,

It’s how I learned about the ache. 

Gave one last look at those times and said my goodbyes. 

Now I take those darker hues and wrangle them into something more refined.

I make a lighter shade of blue. 

I’m not revolving in a circle anymore. 

I open new places and knock down doors.