I still feared the silence
like the edge of a knife
constantly pointed at my
back, left to breathe in
the syllables of words
counted as half truths
with only hope past the
horizon, guiding me into
open arms and a dagger;
caught between moving
forward and not looking
back, with only the sharp
pressure against my spine
keeping me standing still.
In the trees, where the light
rustle of the branches against
the falling of ice and then snow
are collecting like sonnets sung
in early December, where the
reflections from the streets are
chanting melodies and memories,
where my love for you came in
like a winter wind’s kiss, leaving
a blush on your cheeks – you are
the innocent beauty that comes
back to me with the falling snow,
decorating my thoughts in desires
of repetitions of the season, lightly
blanketing my heart with whistles
of love, rustling against the trees.
I’ve grown weary of the
distance between two stars,
it must be filled in silence
that battles the mind and
heart – left to trap echoes
of longing and lost love,
as though reflections of
stars shine brightest inside
truth and honesty past the
goodbyes, despite the time
in distance; never to reach
out towards a love to hold.
Autumn was fading in a blur
of orange encrusted promises
as the first hint of snow was
falling on the horizon, with a
tangle of white whistling onto
the blank page leaving behind
softened shades of forgotten
words, entrusting the landscape
in starlight and glistening snow –
the ashes of autumn left fading,
by icicles as sharp as truth left
dangling over the page, with a
blanket left behind of words to
be uncovered, as crisp dances
of snow begin to fall again.
Within two shades of silence,
I am still wishing the idea of your
name on my lips, whistling away
blushes of memories against my
reflection, hoping for a change of
season to cradle me in their arms
as nights are growing longer, with
the days burning to ashes. I am
battling the silence of my mind
versus the quietness in my heart,
where I cannot fathom a victor, for
neither are leading me back to you.
Scraped together in mementos
of happier days and longing nights
are pieces of rubble from a broken
heart; cast in half light candles of
that first evening we spent beneath
the stars, with notes gently battered
back and forth, written in the keno
crayon that we’d slide across the bar
as though we could not get enough
of showcasing our love, by way of
stolen heartbeats and a future mapped
out in beer stains and crayon – left to
gather together in daydreams lost as
debris, stuffed in a shoebox, as worn
as my heart, filtered away in hope, set
to hold all pieces of my memories.
The words so fearlessly hung
from her lips, yet she refused
to speak them in the darkest
hours of untold truth – instead
struggling to gather strength to
mumble echoes from her heart
that would cause cracks in my
own unsteady foundation. She
was aware of very little beyond
the coming farewell, but she
spoke with a certainty of it in
her heart and it showed on the
delicate lips that I used to be
allowed to kiss with my own
certainty goodnight, yet now
had to casually watch tremble
as she tried repeatedly to say
the words that went beyond a
promise. Those words fearless,
yet the actions were fading in
moments as I turned to kiss her
lips one last time in memory.
hope was numbered in days,
limited to dash marks on the
calendar, set to the rising of
the sun and then moon; as if
time was not a destructive
enough force, twisting and
bending hope into fragments
of the truth, believing in the
idea of second chances long
past memories in disguise.
with every newly fallen star
we were running out of days
to count – lies to believe and
truths to alter into our own
interpretations, calling them
hope as though we could hold
them in our embrace, tightly
bound in possibilities, to help
lighten the nights when the
stars are refusing to shine.
You are the subtle laughter
that fills a promise with hope;
a voyage amongst the stars in
the darkest hours of the night
with the late whistling tunes
of an autumn evening breeze.
You are the dream and desire,
parading around my thoughts
in metaphors set to sonnets –
half past lasting perfection in
rhythms of blues kissed by
last year’s jazz. You are my
love, as pure as the falling of
the first snow, coming home.
Without the delicate light
of the moon to guide me
into my days, I am left in
uncertainty, craving the
subtle reflection of stars,
that are like kisses left in
sonnets and in rhythms of
blues; left to fear the sun
like a second burden to my
day, knowing the hours to
be a reminder of how the
moon vanished past the
horizon, refusing to rise,
and I am left in darkness.
Storylines in Verse 