The Night of a Wedding Composer

Time progresses over with a winter hue,
my lips frost with purple, red, and dew.
The senses ripple unclear when moon rises,
and my steps splinter the earth’s grass—dies.

I gaze out the window every time the sun shatters,
so I may blacken my sight where nothing matters.
And then when the clouds crash from the sky, hinder,
this foe comes fourth—he’s the commencer.

With arms of grace, he thrusts to the air,
his sleeves roll like obese man bare.
Spirals of the breeze brush through,
rich locks of hair never to see sky blue.

Behold, he speaks, with words
and whispers out like morning birds
the song every tune should sing
when the wedding bells ring.