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 crave delicate droplets
of poetry falling in rhythm
to the whispers of the wind,
where the simplest patterns
of emotion and honesty are
left to haphazard conditions
caused by the writer’s pen –
where storms can break out
in agony, tearing readers at
the core, or washes away all
sadness, starting over once
again, where the delicacy of
words fall like droplets in the
wind, carrying my feelings
with me, until the very end.
I crave the pain that seeps
from my blood into poetic
trails of blue ink found on
the page, where light and
verse are clouded behind
lines of memories and the
subtle hues of white space
are begging to be branded
with the leftover outcries of
my mind and heart; I crave
the light of pain, when I can
shred through the darkness
in poetic upheaval, emerging
victorious, with pen in hand.
Truth was shredding
through the darkness
like the sun kisses the
stars awake, blending
shades of words into
wisdom and feelings,
cutting through edges
of blackened dust by
the fiercest of kisses;
truth lies in the dark
shadows, softened by
a denial of the unseen,
where words can hide
emotions and actions,
destroying any hope
of a peaceful recovery.
I thought I had your heart,
all this time I was calling it
mine, still believing that our
memories had been painted
on the walls of your heart in
crimson shades of the golden
days when a whisper was all
that it took, more than just a
look and I was yours and you
were all mine – but with days
fading, and the paint chipping
away, I ask myself how long
I shall be allowed to stay…
Bury me in the autumn,
propped against the dying
willows, so I can whisper
alongside them until the
mornings end – carry me
past the river, where the
roots are growing plenty,
caught inside the daze of
my lengthened goodbyes.
Remember me in autumn,
when the trees have faded
into whispers beyond the
river, where the age of my
innocence and youth still
linger in the roots; and if
the winds shall no longer
reach the willows, miss
me, in my final goodbye.
I struck a match at twelve
counting to five and watching
the smoke rise just long enough
for me to miss you – you were
my evening, night, and my air,
clouded in ash and memories;
with a burnt tipped match left in
my hand, as all that remained of
a time fueled in fire and desire,
where the rising smoke was a
promise we were infinite, with
city streets falling way beneath
us, now we’re just slow burning
into rising clouds of dust and ash.
In the light of celebration
when musings come out to
play and laughter fills the
outline of trees, stemming
from the tips of flowers up
towards the sky – there is
music found in the shades
of early March; where you
and I are dancing between
the gardens, left untouched
by chaos and foundations,
soothed in gentle melodies
with us reflected in shades
of subtle Jade, set against a
celebration of sound and life.
Summer had finally ended
in a blaze, and now autumn
was retreating in the glistened
promise of snow before winter;
where the falling of the clouds
overlooking heaven was a sight
of Romance in November – a
new change in the subtle days,
where the gentle tug of breezes
was an embrace to be found, as
my favorite of all kinds of love
stories. This was a new kind of
season, where the snow met a
match to burn; it was beauty in
transition, and it was all ours.
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.
Storylines in Verse 