Bruise

like

a wrinkle

writ

upon the brow

like

a bruise

black and blue

it's much like flight

among

the

boughs

a long-fallow field

fit

to

plow

seasons turn

cards dealt to choose

a stone

by it's very builder 

refused

you know

some

were born 

to sing 

the blues

waiting

endless waiting

let it not be written upon the heart

it's just

etched

in the lines

around

your

eyes

yet

a

child

born

to play this part

the present falls to the past or future's knife...

wouldn't you know it's only life?

Author's Note

I haven't slept, so here's one from the notebook. Good morning!