wip: overflowing cup

A cup overflowing spills no less
than a broken, joyful tears
are still tears,
though they may be for hoping
the forest chimes sing, and I
missed their merry melody
for though I've no dogs to walk
nor farm,
no well-worn path past beaten down
beneath well-shod feet, nor birds
whose graceful swan-song flies
in vees out of a perfect pond -
village carillon are caroling the yuletide
winter themes I missed,
for I've no friends in sleds
or horse-drawn carriage,
I'm fever-red imagining the weather where
the city rests
honking its klaxon horn
now I've turned back home,
this is not my dream: hopeless faces
walking long-dead places,
is it the season or the eyes
that bring death to the skies?
I pray it's not me
town, city, and countryside
all pass by, with nothing
to see the sea calls to me, but it is pages that bleed
between my hands, out of my side
a sacrifice to silence I'll suffer myself
while the clattering carriages canter
beside, outside this life





sometimes you write and really don't like it, and hit the publish button anyway.... (because it's bedtime)