Transitions

As the last page turns,
the leaves begin to fall,
replacing chapters and
metaphors for the crisp
air of autumn, reds and
oranges left dangling on
the branches as the story
lingers, gently lulling us
into a smooth transition,
where nights are burning
pages of our histories in
the flames, and we warm
ourselves inside memories,
counting stars and waiting
for the next story to begin.

Verses in May

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.

Distress

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…

Bohemian

In the broken night sky,
nestled between the stars
are wishes placed during
those long hours waiting
on the rays of a forgotten
sun, when love appears to
be infinite against colors
reflected off the minds of
the dreamers and believers;
let us be wanderers, left to
the curious and undecided,
with creativity as our guide
beneath the broken shards
of starlight, dreaming of
the love from the moon.

Fifty-Three

At the crevice of the turn,
where the wild flowers in
yellows and whites dance
side to side as though no
one were watching, where
the tree line is hidden from
immediate view, and owls
retreat to during the longest
hours of the sun in summer,
where a laugh or even the
slightest giggle can get lost
for miles in any breeze – my
heart is beating fast against
your giggle and sigh, I have
re-found love on your terms,
gently rustic and everlasting.

Drafts and Promises

Written in the ashes
of pencil shavings and
daydreams are leftover
remains of my words
not quite brave enough
to take root to the page;
searching for solace in
the confines of a blank
space, where limits are
the enemy, burying my
own expectations into
first drafts of promises
in a chance at revival of
written smoke and ash.

Reflections in Green

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.

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.

Transitions in Silence

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.

Musings (In Season)

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.