We were more than lightning
flashing against the open night,
with splinters of stars scattered
between our hearts and hands
we took a stand as the thunder
rolled, booming and crashing,
we laughed along in songs as
the rain loomed on – you and I
were always more than sparks
falling in the backdrop of night,
we were the illumination of the
storm, and the hero and the end;
tempted by the hands of fate, we
kept our sins to wash them away.
I was holding you still
as time catapulted from
underneath our feet, as a
foreshadowing memory
of what we stood to lose;
the details still dangling
by the threads as we are
rocketed forward, arms
stretched out, grabbing as
many loose strings as we
could, cherishing our life
as those threads unraveled
in our grasp – we remember
what we have lost, and from
there, all that we have gained.
The days fell to gray,
darkened by the turn
of winter’s kiss, where
the snow was meant to
fall as soft blankets of
white, creating visions
of a lovers wonderland,
hand in hand with the
night; yet the snow was
left shaken in a refusal
to fall, leaving an earth
left to gray, cold hearted
and bleak, with only the
falling of lovers to weep.
I crashed into sleep last night,
tumbling down a nightmare of
a rabbit hole, where love was
obsolete and solace was sought
after like a sacred form of drug,
mythical and scarce, as though
I wasn’t accustomed to comfort
inside my lover’s arms- I broke
by the minute, reaching out for
an arm to hold, only continuing
to fall further in a delusional and
obscure hell, where I was both a
ringmaster and victim, bound by
my subconscious, searching for
the remains of my piloted dream.
As the last page turns,
the leaves begin to fall,
replacing chapters and
metaphors for the crisp
air of autumn, reds and
oranges left dangling on
the branches as the story
lingers, gently lulling us
into a smooth transition,
where nights are burning
pages of our histories in
the flames, and we warm
ourselves inside memories,
counting stars and waiting
for the next story to begin.
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.
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.
I’ve traveled to the edge,
where I could sit upon my
own dreams, counting the
stars as they fell in delicate
repetition of the beats of my
heart, soothing the fall with
the faintest whisper of blues;
my thoughts left to scour the
sky as I paint the horizon in
colors I’ve never before used,
watching and waiting for night
to fall, searching my mind for a
chance at escape, set against
a sight of lasting midnight hues.
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.
Storylines in Verse 