October's overcast morning numbs all
feeling and clouds the hilly climb to write.
I arrive at the crest out of breath, reluctant
to the task at hand. Out beyond the glass
yellowed hills flatten white into pink
ink-smudged fingers scribbling words
too pale for your dying blood,
too pale for our dying friendship,
too pale for your senseless sacrifice.
Hot, defying love overcasts the paleness
and angry words leap from the veil of grey.