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.
At the edge of the world,
where the sun is falling to
the ground, and the horizon
is only a meeting place for
two hearts at dawn and dusk;
where the tree line trembles
with every brisk kiss before
the rays converge in one last
embrace, soothing the earth
in love and redemption – we
are two hearts of an opposite
nature, grasping at the roots
for any chance with the other,
knowing our love to be true
like a guarantee of the rising
sun, we meet at the horizon.
Underneath the light
of a three quarter moon,
watching the plains drift
beneath the stars, set to a
soothing rhythm of your
whispers against the night
stained glass, venturing
down the highway under
the warm embrace of the
moon – you and I are love;
traveling with two beating
hearts as the radio, set to
the rocking motion of the
lighted night sky, searching
past the horizon for home.
Take me back to the sun
peeking through the clouds
against a backdrop of the
mountain side, with shades
of green becoming a warm
embrace as the breezes are
bouncing between ridges
beckoning us to play; take
me back to the mountains
with my love by my side,
wandering the lands where
the trails and foothills meet,
hand in hand waiting for the
moon and stars to rise – take
me home to the mountain side.
I crave lines of poetry
on sides of mountains,
where I can bury them
under the stars into the
untouched ground and
blend them to ash and
soft charcoal; watching
verses sprout onwards
in and among the trees,
and kissing creeks, with
a delicate brush across
mountain tops in time for
the setting sun to whisper
goodnight, and then recite.
I was caught between
daydreams and sonnets,
in the loose reflections
off the western skyline,
watching the mountains
soothe me into a lullaby
I’ve heard twice before –
when nights were always
cooler without the glow
from the moon caressing
the mountain side, and
days were lined like the
inside of stars, caught
between the horizons
searching for home.
At the peak of the hours
when the sun is refusing
to rise, and the clouds are
falling like ash and debris,
when I am hovering along
the outskirts of loneliness
on the edge of denial and
fear, I hear only a whisper
from you gently soothing
my own voice against the
rapid beating of my heart,
bringing me back into your
arms, where I can think in
fear, knowing I won’t fall.,
As silent as a rose,
left to the sun in the
hours of spring, with
light echoes from the
trees rustling against
thoughts as though
there was only ever a
chance at happiness,
ready to fade out in
the days of summer;
you are silence left
at daybreak, a single
chill in the air when
the days are shifting,
holding onto a fear of
what change will bring.
I once danced
with the moon,
a tango at dusk,
with whiskey on
the horizon and
jazz on repeat –
the stars in awe,
with our hearts
gliding in time
to rhythms past
twilight, waiting
until the sun rises
to finally catch a
breath with the
morning breeze.
Storylines in Verse 