Tag: Poetry

No one knows as much
as the one who held on
to the shadows,

distant, in a cloud’s leaving
a tearstained scenery
beneath, at these feet
where you lay,
bleeding in defeat.

But I did, as I did not
wish to keep you
at that agonizing distance,
though weather proved itself
the miserable weight.

You are reburied
in a shell, cast in stone,
heated from a dispassionate hell.

A numbness, carried on
from teardrops that drowned us
in currents that lost us.

Once, always in love,

now being here, turning eyes above
to see nothing but dark clouds,
with nothing but curtains
coming down.

Dig me in
from previous disassociation,
for you are the one drug
to keep me running
on a guess,

makeshift on an excuse,
blinded to another’s
fires of warning.

Undressed skin,
disrobed eyes;
the leaves you walk upon
are brittle,
only in disguise.

I can’t seem to fear you,
as our faces are smeared
in the white.

In the white,
where outlines are drawn,
we were touching
more than what I felt was forever,
rubbed against your naked shore.

In the bleak,
where dust falls from rust,
I find myself entering
the smoke, the fog where you sail,

though I can’t seem to fear you,
listening to your heartbeat,
even among the fading heat
where your body was,
where your trail
cannot be covered,
can always be recovered.

Come here.
Drown there,
relived in teeming agony.
We’ll fall, coming close
to death, once more,
being relit with a single candle
near an open sore.

Kisses for this connection,
an embrace upon that resurrection,
with love, like a tool
to fix what cannot be broken,
even if, even when
pieces of our reflection
are decorating our flesh,
on bleeding cuts.

Taking down stars,
raising wars,
believing in things that fade
on rivers where we wade,
searching through debris
that drenches our feet,

for something, only something
to keep us in the shade.

Tossing around, pushing through
tears and long-relived years,
escaping embraces, inside tunnels,
needlessly mourning the roads
we dared to defend,

and always, if not forever
denying what was meaning
to mend.

I am certain
that lakes will, one day
dry themselves upon hearts,
with no more sadness,
nothing else to rain
from those depleting years
we were taking the fall.

I am reassured
through oceans that were
walked upon,
that faces are keeping
their memories, not like fugitives
racing through thoughts,
upon unburied nights,

but like petals that have gentleness
to their float, to their steer
on the slowest of currents
against history’s pages,
against what we thought
was lifting us,
though was drowning us.

We glimmer
when fog has begun
to evaporate, to vanish
its blanketing aura
around us,

seeing scenery
once covered in snow.

Was it too much
when candles were relit?

Was it too much
when dispositions were relived?
Revived – from the burning shell,
a transparent hell,
a forest fire,
where all your life’s eternity
had been a tragic calamity.

I knew too much.
You grew too much,
out from my bloody thorns.
I laid a price
on my fiery forehead,
a fever you constantly touched,
but never judged.

At that, I saw you reaching
for some other distant shadow,
where storms were surging
and was your messenger
for comparisons.

Embellishing. Surrendering
over and over, to the fog
that crippled a vision,
lost on the rocks,

because it was too much
to keep us wrapped in leaves,
buried in kisses, embraced
in an engulfing sunrise,

as you were feeling your pulse
moving you away.

You sought it, in yourself,
to keep sinking,
despite the love, despite the breath
that ever kept sails onward,
that ever kept senses forward.

Maybe at the edge
of the bridge, you’ll see
whose rope you were tugging,
while holding hands with the smoke
that exited from my
bloodstained lungs.

Maybe you’ll see to the end
of the universe, and when
you get back, you’ll hear a different
rhythm to that heartbeat,

the one you called “familiar”,
the one you said wasn’t similar
to your more recognizable
feelings, as ripples brought
from a rain, defeated.

Maybe, once you descend
into an ocean of stories,
from stories up high,
from massed pages, turning only
at those relieving sighs,
you’ll see it, as we were
far apart as those stars,

the ones we said were “so close”,
while meaning to collide
like histories, like covers
that were keeping us closed
to memories that hold on,

like muddied footprints,
of catastrophes
we kept backtracking
to keep drawing eyes back
to an epicenter,
where we began.

I suppose,
that in this weather,
I would stay the same.

Though we were bleeding, together,
washing our hands in each other’s
unforgiving eyes,

nothing could sweep the stains,
originating from beneath your feet.

I swiped the more rain-soaked strands
from covering your face,
while I scared the demons away
from reliving your moments
you were ever away,

cowering like children do,
plagued by thoughts I thought were too
tragic, to be believed,

but believing in them, you will do,
reviving fears, residing in the cold,
until your heart grows old.

Though we were naked,
sheltered in dreams we held onto
like stars made for cradles,
we were still bleeding.

An evening, to come,
a relieving sigh, to exit
from tearstained lips
that were not meant to join.

Dipping our heads into a sunset,
finding reprieve only in what is left
among fields,

where seeds are drifting
like newness that opens newness,
like an open door that reveals another.

I cannot tell,
nor can I remind myself
the differing aspects
between a lake or an ocean,
while both are forming
at mere eyes apart.

I keep believing
that Neptune will have itself,
of its own reflection – not mine,
not from one who cannot
even see the sun,

without burning back
what I cannot see,
when I cannot look back.

Lashes. Long scars
upon arms that embrace the air,
while a choking sensation
is all, to relive a curse
that leaks in through shattered lungs.

For I’ll re-enter these waters,
when I breathe in
all that I ever gave, giving in-
to all that I disbelieved in,

then, to all that I find myself
rowing backwards, to be within,
and believing in no deity,
when its face is hidden
behind clouds, behind smog
of filth that resides there,

with, or without,
the worshipper.

With greed, with fervor,
telling me to devour
the light within your eyes,
the sun among your skies,
and I’ll hope to undress
those sunset colors,

saving droplets, partaking in
heated highlights, crossed between
your tresses that lay
against your face,

your unburdened
shoulders, in their
lowered posture.

To residue, atop lakes
brought together for a ship
I sail on, I am,
returning to what I left, leftover
in her heart of a morning –
a mourner’s colors.

And has she painted her form
in leaking sweat,
among running waste,
when filth can captivate,
where an aroma
can always instigate?

A pin to a fold.
A curtain, over one,
sheltered in no disguise,
as she only
can find herself revealing
a durable summertime,

ample, even at what I
left behind.

Come in, to breathe,
nearest to shadows.
Realize how
delicate, you are, taking in
what has been absorbed,
from a shrouded history.

Having moved, into
this desolate room,
to rewrite your name
into a embracing, silver frame,

you were never mentioning more
than everything you abhorred.

I have always noticed
how uncertain you were –
in closing hands, praying to stars,
lifting up oceans, from your eyes,
residing among hourglasses
that held limited grains.

Surrender, after you have
remembered, letting rivers
cross you into a pair
of blank canvas arms,

ones you can picture
are yours, to marry.

Wash your glimpses
apart, from weighted sensation,
over into fateful resignation.

We each have a part to play,
before our skies turn gray.

Because of our
similar motions, rowing over
feuding pathways, we have
designed each other
to capsize another,
plunging into deep-red sunsets,
reborn glances,

breathing in what drowns us,
inside those bloodstained kisses.

Half-way to trust
a lighthouse to guide us,
while being half-naked in where
we find ourselves swimming,
while we still sink,

and we are always questioning
an outcome we saw, before.

Are we ever getting there?

Building a boat.
Sinking it with holes.
Hearing a heartbeat skip
like stones, over a river –
flat, in our lack of character.

Lifeless, in what we never
accepted, for refusal
of innumerable, insufferable
disappointing endings.