James

WAR EAGLE

I enjoy many things: family, sports e.g: Auburn Tiger Football, music, movies, outdoors, writing, video games, and etc.

"It"

It looks like me,
sounds like me,
and may often consume me,
though I assure you,
it is not me.

It may speak for me,
think for me,
and may even act for me,
but I promise you,
it is not me.

It may seem to love for me,
appear to hate for me,
at times make decisions for me,
but I must profess to you,
it is not me.

It seeks to be me,
steal what belongs to me,
and destroy all that is left of me,
though I swear to you,
it will never feel for me.

Original work by James M. Gatlin (2006)

"Mourning Dew—Cemetery Tears"

Tears gather on our planet's outer shell,
from thin air they seem to materialize,
littering all surfaces naked of cover;
nature's effort,
giving a display of emotion,
for the loss of yesterday.

Droplets of crystalline sorrow,
on every leaf of the tree,
and every slab and stone, so mysteriously uniform;
night's attempt,
sobbing a drowning pool,
for it's last moments of today.

Beads of prism-like moisture in full spectrum color,
glistening diamonds from the granite and sod landscape,
evaporating first from stone then greenery;
morning's work,
darkness's weeps, the evidence sent away,
ghostly mist and fog arise marking the approaching dawn.

Dewdrops seemingly—all too—content to simply fade away,
evacuating the cold curious rows of strangely etched stones,
the manicured lawn, and even the flowers on the slabs;
sunrise's job,
radiating immense warmth and light,
preparing life's abundance for this new day.

Drips from the eyes roll down the cheeks of the masses,
crowding close to the fresh soil mound, amidst the etched granite stones,
one man singing praises of Him,
as well as of the unaware, honored guest;
God's way,
readying one's loves for their final heartfelt goodbyes,
as his soul is Heaven bound rewarded with grand,eternal days.

Droplets of salty mourning from the dearest,
the soft tissues gather,
drying the many saturated eyes shrouded in sadness,
from the amassed hoards of the unknowing guest's bereaved;
humanity's gift,
of willing shoulders to lean on and cry,
promises of the infamous 'better tomorrow'.

Moistures of feeling from nature and mourner alike,
at bay for now but ne'er forevermore,
for as the grand radiant star falls deep below the sea;
nature's and God's plan,
inevitable as the clockwork, celestial phases of the moon,
this endless process will re-begin as the dew will soon return,
in this newborn darkness,
this melancholy, shadowy new night.

Original work by James M. Gatlin (2007)

Check out more of my writing at jamie74scorpio.gather.com , or join and begin writing and sharing on your own.