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.
With the whistle of the winds
past the earliest hours of dawn,
where the trees are swaying soft
symphonies outside my window,
calling for my memories to come
out and play, I am strolling gently
through dreams half buried in the
past, lingering twice on shades of
blues with a soft touch of violets
lining the horizon, with collapsed
wishes parading down like rain –
half entranced by the voice of my
muse singing lullabies, I whistle
alongside in hopes of her return.
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.
It all comes down to patience,
a steady quality I do not have –
where time is only considered
a burden, and the silences are
screaming lies and indecisions
as I attempt to cast myself into
dreams of hope, where the only
truths are painted in sought after
realizations too painful to bare
as my heart is still echoing your
name; the constant fear of never
again and lone tales of distance
spreading out like ashes in the
breeze, where your name falls
like ice from my lips as I am
hesitant to break the silence for
the fear of your answers is the
only thing worse than waiting.
in the latest of the early hours
when the blue ink is bleeding
from my thoughts and dreams,
scribbling through scratches of
memories and words cast in the
idea of gold and longing, it is your
image twice believing in the sigh
forming on your lips after a gentle
kiss, with the echo of rain falling
as though it wasn’t just an ending,
a parting of two hearts still beating
in time to the other but no longer
leaning towards one another, as
though goodbye was just a word
not an action, as I was frantically
trying to recapture all my desires
before that final kiss into words to
keep you here, to bring you back,
as though I ever had a chance.
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 an ease of transition, past
the yellowed hills of the horizon,
where the truths were scattered
like leaves in fall, briskly strewn
about in patterns undecipherable,
painting the slight variations of
jazz in repetition to the subtle
echo of your laugh at the ease
of love; you are romance at the
height of the moon, longing to
fall like the pending crisp tales
of autumn, changing indecisions
into truths to dance in the fields
with the daisies and champagne.
Storylines in Verse 