So much for words when
only actions hold any truth;
resemblances of the ideas
we can’t form into coherent
thoughts past our lips, instead
focusing on silence and the
act of distance to showcase
feelings – providing time to
play the enemy, and for our
memories to fall apart under
pressure, as though actions
aren’t in fact confrontation,
nestled on the lips of a lie.
If my words mean nothing
then why do you shed light
on them during the hours
following the break of the
moon – filling your thoughts
with serenades and sonnets
of the love that I have for you,
which you aren’t allowing to
grow; bending the edges of
the words into hardened and
misshapen truths as though
honesty is the reality you’re
running from, and I am the
keeper of twice painted lies.
I played my final hand,
knowing the odds against
my favor, as all I needed
was the queen of hearts
nestled deeply behind the
blue print found in your
hand – as I waited patiently
for you to lay your cards on
the table, and yet instead of
taking all that was left of me,
you got up, silently walking
away, taking your cards and
my queen of heart with you.
I lived long enough to see
myself become the villain
in my own narrative; once
the hero, fighting tragedy
at the hands of a happily
ever after, only to lose sight
of my fights, while taking a
bitter sword against myself –
twice for the blushes, once
for a lie. Burning morals
like bridges against those
non believers, reciting lies
with a sharp tongue to view
chances past my cause; left
to put together pieces of my
own destruction with only a
realization that I’ve become
my own target, left to fight.
I had spent the summer
in false hope and delusion,
placing every effort in my
attempts to tame the wind,
believing once captured, I
could silence the storms,
rocking them gently with
sonnets and lullabies, only
to fail with every lash and
blow; but now it is autumn,
with only the promises of
leaves falling, granting me
new memories to tame, with
every whistle of the breezes.
In a rush of swollen blazes,
spewing ashes of autumn and
charcoal, where the half burnt
breezes are being carried out
as though fragments bare no
harm, and memories are only
as good as the dreams in which
they are kept; with the roots of
flames burning blue in the light
of love and smoke hovering past
realms of suffocation, waiting
for life to distinguish the blazes –
as though indecision was just a
game, with all of us left burning.
I wrote down every letter
in curves and slants in a
constant repetition of the
words I longed to say to
you – the characterization
of every verse loaded with
a kiss, a promise, and a
meaning that would only
fall apart with punctuation.
Every letter was bleeding
in blue ink from my mind,
hoping for a chance to be
read by you, to be seen as
though you alone could see
into my heart and realize
what kept it beating – but
words are only words until
put into action, and it was
just one of the many love
letters, I could never send.
I had been dreaming of
softened shades of your
embrace, with the light of
the sun reflecting fluttering
tales of your eyelashes in a
steady count of our hearts;
your warmth encircling my
body as a trusted memory,
with your light sigh against
my ear whispering a song
from our earliest of days,
and I not quite believing
this was no longer home.
It was such a gentle cleansing,
with fragments of my former
self, falling in line with the rain;
the wind blowing and leaving
scars of days past, in debt to the
life I left behind, repaying my
sins with a promise of another
sunrise, one lasting chance left
to blow if the winds should shift
so slightly. It was a buildup of
my mistakes falling before my
eyes, dropping from the heavens
to show their past disguises and
remind me where I was headed,
with the passing of the storm.
It was only the silence
returning, creeping in
through the cracks with
a resilience in latitude
towards the tremors of
heartache and looming
debris; twice crossing
stages of change and
promises subdued with
the helping hands of
another, melting down
with the cries of rain.
Storylines in Verse 