The Project - Day 19

The cloud in my head
is gray
and it drips slowly down my spine,
an inexorable drain.

There was a time when I thought the cloud was real,
I took the gray for stone and bowed my head with the weight,
a genuflection to despair.

The moist tattoo of sorrow is perhaps a lesser burden,
but there is no less pain
in the insistent hovering,
the always perceptible closing of light
that hints at a day
unbroken.

The gift of an eclipse is the corona.
Glittering, circling,
defining blackness within its compass,
each distinct from the other.

Dark promises light.

Gray augurs nothing but gray.