Sometimes

Sometimes, I sit in coaches of clouds
and ride the wind
from tears to radiance.

But the breeze is not always gentle,
nor are clouds forever soft
when lightning crashes,
white changes to gray,
and I free-fall from the Heavens.

Landing hard,
I cannot nurse my wounds forever,
for dwelling on the past
is a living death--
a festering pile of memories
marked with a skull.

And sometimes,
all I've left is a pen and paper
accompanied by clear, crisp thoughts,
and broken bones.