Chasing the Dawn

by: Brian Francis

_

The night is but a flash.
A dream weave
tapestry with gray shading
learning the art of the walk away.
Mostly made of sidewalk chalk
and stardust, you remind me
of a friend I once knew
who caught soft powder blues turn
to purple and orange hues of fading
afternoon. She’s seen where skies go to die.
In their honor
she’d dizzy up the colorwheel,
painting the day shades of strange
you can’t help but dance to.

Her favorite though, is the face.
Curl of mouth. Story
of complexion. Battle
behind eyes.

When it’s raining shavings
from Lucy’s diamond sky
precious petals are spread
over lovers beds, and land,
those laid to rest
fugitives from the fading
cascade that watercolor mascara made

a runaway slave
fleeing the scene,
a bad dream
laboring landmines.
Compromised levees
cannot hold back the rush.
Requiem for the wanderlust
sung by a warchild
displaced. Keeping pieces tucked
as honest as naked
in the corner pockets under tongue.

There are pirates
on this water.
The bridges are pyres
lighting nights frozen black
ice hands tremor pastel
wrapping round words shaking
the frames constraints.
Escapes painted on pavement.
If it washes away
before we make it there
no apology is owed.

I understand days clawed raw
swollen open wound pink
puffed dirty blues
hemorrhaging broken notes,
when all you want is daybreak
singing unbroken.
There are no easy answers,
but I offer her as an example.

Sketch them a letter.
Let em know that you’re leaving.
Do it with full smile
curled without question,
eyes welling
overrun with diamonds.
When they ask where you’re going
tell em there are skyscrapers
and tall trees- you can’t tell em apart.
By the time they read it as it is
you’ll be gone.
Tonight is but a flash
and you’re off
chasing the dawn.