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Literature Text
If the wind blows
and there's no one to feel it
I still get this
quaking, trembling
ache in my heart.
My soul still quivers
from melodies liquid-slow,
shifting worlds
and parting glasses.
How much worse
it must be for you, who
felt those cool
thin fingers coil
around you through it all.
Now my skin shies
away from the summer breeze
and my fingers dive
head-first into
tattered pockets.
Anything to keep those
faded-rose memories away.
and there's no one to feel it
I still get this
quaking, trembling
ache in my heart.
My soul still quivers
from melodies liquid-slow,
shifting worlds
and parting glasses.
How much worse
it must be for you, who
felt those cool
thin fingers coil
around you through it all.
Now my skin shies
away from the summer breeze
and my fingers dive
head-first into
tattered pockets.
Anything to keep those
faded-rose memories away.
Literature
Aureolin
I jammed the paper shredder with dandelion heads
after the sun came up this morning,
call it photophobia but I just hate it
how the days keep passing even when I
really need a break,
how the skies can be clear even when it’s
raining in my head.
I guess beauty is a concept
but I needed something tangible,
so I settled for flowers instead of hearts
just this once, who would’ve guessed
they don’t go down quite as easy.
Literature
Dying to meet you
I courted Death
in a burnt out pub
with faulty lights and dirt-cheap drinks;
She had tarred fingers
which danced hypnotically
around her hazy smeared glass.
Word round town was that she had the
Kiss of death
and a tongue as sharp as a scythe,
it was a challenge I couldn’t resist.
I seduced Death
bought her a drink or two
and with rum burning my heart
I stroked her arm,
(coffin cold)
and licked my lips like a predator
(a lamb in wolf’s clothing)
and when she grinned back,
I realised which of us was really prey.
I danced with Death
in a dark alley,
in an abandoned warehouse,
a trashed motel room;
it was fast and heady and yet -
t
Literature
Postcards
You send me
bits and pieces of your world
in too bright postcard pictures
with no return address
A world of plastic cutout landscapes
garish with artificial perfection
and scribbles of hurried platitudes
I wish you would come home
and stop holding who you are
at arms length
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edit: added a second stanza!
Any suggestions?
(kudos to you if you recognize the Camelot title reference
)
Any suggestions?
(kudos to you if you recognize the Camelot title reference
) © 2014 - 2024 daybreaksmiles
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