I crave delicate droplets
of poetry falling in rhythm
to the whispers of the wind,
where the simplest patterns
of emotion and honesty are
left to haphazard conditions
caused by the writer’s pen –
where storms can break out
in agony, tearing readers at
the core, or washes away all
sadness, starting over once
again, where the delicacy of
words fall like droplets in the
wind, carrying my feelings
with me, until the very end.
We were only as good
as the lies on which we
would break, subtle yet
piercing as truth would
surround itself in cloaks
and daggers, shielding
away the innocence and
hiding from the strands
of pain and discomfort
that break with the day;
we were only as good
as we could pretend to
be, losing ourselves in
the reality that our lies
had become the truths
that we would never see.
I once knew how ink
bled from my loosely
strangled ideas into
scraps of feelings left
behind, burned across
the page, where desire
whispered against the
frailty of my own truths;
I had known the depths
of roots, as they were
bound like shackles to
the ground, where my
limitations had become
the soil in which I grew.
On the Phoenix we rose,
flying higher than the jazz
notes in June, with a steady
pour of those whiskey sours
at the ready, you and I were
back to the golden ages of
love after midnight, found
in the playful rhythms of a
trumpet and her sax; where
time for love had become a
luxury, yet the jazz kept on
swaying, and the drinks had
kept on pouring, falling into
repetitions of my heartbeat
singing against your chest –
we were flying higher than
the Phoenix, and we flew on.
I crave the pain that seeps
from my blood into poetic
trails of blue ink found on
the page, where light and
verse are clouded behind
lines of memories and the
subtle hues of white space
are begging to be branded
with the leftover outcries of
my mind and heart; I crave
the light of pain, when I can
shred through the darkness
in poetic upheaval, emerging
victorious, with pen in hand.
I thought I had your heart,
all this time I was calling it
mine, still believing that our
memories had been painted
on the walls of your heart in
crimson shades of the golden
days when a whisper was all
that it took, more than just a
look and I was yours and you
were all mine – but with days
fading, and the paint chipping
away, I ask myself how long
I shall be allowed to stay…
Bury me in the autumn,
propped against the dying
willows, so I can whisper
alongside them until the
mornings end – carry me
past the river, where the
roots are growing plenty,
caught inside the daze of
my lengthened goodbyes.
Remember me in autumn,
when the trees have faded
into whispers beyond the
river, where the age of my
innocence and youth still
linger in the roots; and if
the winds shall no longer
reach the willows, miss
me, in my final goodbye.
In the broken night sky,
nestled between the stars
are wishes placed during
those long hours waiting
on the rays of a forgotten
sun, when love appears to
be infinite against colors
reflected off the minds of
the dreamers and believers;
let us be wanderers, left to
the curious and undecided,
with creativity as our guide
beneath the broken shards
of starlight, dreaming of
the love from the moon.
I crave poetry set inside
rhythms of jazz and blues,
where the beats lay golden,
scattered between riffs and
the subtleties of life, gently
soothing in the breaks and
limits deeply rooted in the
foundation set by a trumpet
and her sax; swaying in and
out of each storyline in verse
in a tantalizing flow of words,
serenaded by jazz, and love.
I’ll meet you at the edge
of the sunset, between the
wishes and mislaid dreams,
where the sun and moon are
dancing, exchanging glances
passed around like whispers,
subtle and never seen; where
colors are blending into stars,
floating higher than the night,
casting shadows of our hearts
into stories shining bright – I
will meet you soon, my love,
where the moon and sun are
free, dancing on the horizon
just waiting for you and me.
Storylines in Verse 