I took a chance at romance,
swaying between the pillars
of you and I, where I could
grab your hand in an elegant
twirl, siting you, my moon,
to be the most beautiful girl,
as we lived happily, dancing
beneath the sky. With every
step, and every spin, I held
your heart and pulled you in,
as we were lovers, braving
the night – I took your hand
and the dance began, as we
swayed gently, just you and I.
At the peak of the night
I would hold you in my
arms, sending whispers
of love and desire in and
among the stars, ravished
along the falling of night;
where we could drift in an
effortless dance between
dreams, creating melodies
of love notes, swaying in
the slumbered skies, with
hearts asleep we rest inside
warming arms, and know
together our love will rise.
My words were harboring
at the deepest end, only to
burst on the surface at the
first sign of light – fighting
a losing battle against time
and the currents, making the
words stubborn, unattainable
at the heart, as I was left to
dwell alone in the shallows,
watching with a half heart
as my words were the only
cause to blame, as I lay back
submerging myself in relief
and guilt, as I lay drowning.
I gamble against a fear
of my own doing; I have
loved you once, burned
at the roots with solemn
words of affection laced
in your laughter, yet I love
you still, hardened by the
remnants of our truths I no
longer wish to see, folded
into our history as the sun
still kisses the moon every
night – I play on, dangled
by my roots, betting against
fear, holding only my heart.
I brought only wildflowers
lost to the softest shadow of
a rose, expert in their travels,
knowing little of the leisurely
kind of love and less fragrant
than a promising heartbreak,
those wildflowers were all I
had – vibrant and yet hidden
behind thorns of another love.
I watched them wither away,
just like every dying rose, as
though no love could be saved.
Bleached in the grains
of paper were the words
I could not write, the lone
verses lost between space
and a hardened emptiness
of emotions, where lurking
behind the daze of summer
the truths could not spring
about, falling in line to the
repetition of abandonment
between ink and parchment;
my freedom buried inside
the softest touch of autumn,
where the troubles of defeat
can smolder in ash, leaving
behind my heart in ink stains.
I crave mad sparks of poetry
igniting against the backdrop
of the night, in colors of reds
and golds, fierce to illuminate
the northern sky, with booms
and bangs, clanging together
in a symphony outshining the
stars, and with ropes of night
left far off dangling between
the outbursts of verses rising,
as the chaos of the poets hand
sparks madness within the sky.
As the night progressed
into the gentle falling of
rain against the windows,
my words washed away
into memory, drifting by
the outskirts of streams,
in downcast symphonies
set to rhythms and blues;
with the winds twitching,
mumbling the remainder
of my thoughts, I am left
to drown in the hopes of
love in silence, hardened
against memories of soft
jazz, flowing like the rain.
In the subtle cluster of stars,
where my hands have danced
along the brightest side of the
moon and have touched with
the gentlest of embraces the
edges of our memories left to
the shadows, cooled down by
time and never ending space;
I still find your heart beating
with every falling star, left to
the hopeless romantics making
wishes on the remnants of love.
Somewhere in the transition
of my love for you and being
allowed to love you once more,
I lost my voice – gone were the
words that flew so easily from
my pen, left instead to the blue
inked stains smeared across the
pages, crossed out and repeated
twice more until love itself had
become this illusion and I could
no longer convey my affection
without the promise of bleeding
my heart on the page, and in my destruction, my voice withdrew;
leaving behind thoughts I could
not put into words, strangled by
time and longing, as though upon
its death, the truth could be free.
Storylines in Verse 