For you
Listen, just once more, to me,
before you leave, unheeding.
After this, locked and hidden,
I will put it all away,
to hope, to wait, to wither.
It's like clouds before sunset,
tinged crimson like a lover's blush.
Like stars at midnight, till morning burning;
deathless, only hiding.
It's the sail of a small bird on a well-caught gust,
slow, against the streak of a meteor.
It's a meteor that comes unbidden but welcome,
yet fades, brief like wind-flung raindrops on a window.
It's like seeing the ocean after ages of winding road,
and a lighthouse rising from the rocks.
Like a promise of rest beside eternal waters
with a guardian for starless new-moon nights.
It's sweet chocolate shared between a couple,
trifle banter that flits like a butterfly.
It's petalled colour on a lone stalk in a grassy field
standing against a harsh sky.
It's so much, too much,
and I sit, sniffing, on an overflowing suitcase
trying to pack it all away.
But every day it distils like salt crystals forming
and then it seems to get easier.
It seems to be many things but all it is,
is the feeling that is now long gone,
save for when on drawn-out nights
I lie and forget,
that it's an eternal wait
for you.
it's been a month now since that long, long, night...
Monday, January 30
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2 comments:
shu shu..
you sound sad.
*big hug* k?
-lots of love-
To You
Listen, just once more, to me,
before you turn, unhearing.
Of this, loud and brazen,
I will lay out my comments,
in hope, to soothe, and comfort.
Its like looking at a heart breaking,
with my arms tied to my sides.
Its a piece of glass between
two hands that seek to touch.
Its the trail of a teardrop
as it falls from your eye.
Its the sound of a sob
from the other end of the line.
Its like the song of a bird that mourns its mate,
the sorrow that comes when love has been great.
Like a soft eyed dreamer dreaming of a dream he had,
of sleeping simply by his lover's side.
Its a poem shared among friends,
written of secret stories that have no need to be told.
Its like watching a flower struggle to survive,
while knowing all along that it will die.
Its so much, too much,
and I sit, silently, at my screen,
trying to pack it into a poem.
But every word as it falls deadens,
and it seems to get harder.
It seems ridiculous and odd but all it is,
is the feeling that still persists,
every time I read your poem.
And so I compose another,
that seeks to explain this
to you.
*******************
Forgive me for multilating your poem.
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