Once the Sun

Life has storms of all kinds that we either weather or...we die.

Once the sun
perched on my shoulder
and whispered
her tinkling breezing thoughts
while darkness slithered
up the other,
dripping of lost and other
pending oughts,
twisting on my ears and eyes
while tempest brewed on the skies
of crimson, purple,
yellow-gold,
like stories waiting
to be told,
in the way only dreams
can tell them -
in flashes, like lightning
marking time to the storm
that none dare name
until she's torn
past a staggered
and fettered few,
who pick up the pieces
in the way
survivors do,
once the sun
perches back on shoulders
and whispers other stories
of something old
and something new.