Simple Poetry

I had not felt the gentle
stroke of a pen between
my fingers in an almost
near cycle of the moon,
back when I was trying
to capture your beauty
in lyrical rhythms from
my heart, to have and to
hold, as though I could
actually cage part of you;
I had failed words when I
failed you – left to gravel
between the ink stains for
my final second chance at
a happy ending with you.

Fifty-Seven

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.

Come What May

I will chase you into tomorrow
as midnight falls onto a lonely
hour, where words are falling
like change onto the pavements,
with the whispers of newly cast
resolutions echoing against the
alleyways bound to be lost by
sunrise – I will follow you into
the new year, where memories
are disregarded as unnecessary
change, and change is viewed as
successfully winning the lottery;
it’s the realm of new possibilities
or perhaps just any other day, but
no matter what happens, I’ll still
be by your side, come what may.

Nightmare

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.

Anchor

I bled out all my secrets
in exchange for one last
breath, thinking beyond
reason that I wouldn’t be
the one to drown; yet my
hidden truths and subtle
lies were an anchor that
was holding me down as
the words rushed in and
secrets bled out, and my
hope for a final breath to
plead for you not to listen,
sunk with my inhibitions
as I suffocated in my lies.

Resolutions, Past

She lives on the outskirts
of dreams, where hope goes
to grow past the daisies and
champagne, where the bitter
trenches of a rainstorm half
past the season barrel in like
a stampede. She loves and lies
half past the imaginary set to
imagery, of dreams she once
grew from the roots of ashes to
set her free; running wild past
the outskirts of resolutions, past
daisy chains and restless nights,
where hope no longer grows like
the Gatsby champagne flows.