An empty room.
A tidy bed.
There fell a loom
with a snipped thread.
I search, consumed,
for any trace
of your perfume.
I seek your face
in walls so dull
And curtains closed
In closets full
of silent clothes.
At last I pull
your blanket close,
The last of you
wilts like a rose.
I face the precipice
of dying innocence.
A vacant couch
where aching bones
once sat. A house,
no more a home.
The extra mug
and extra chair.
The painful tug
of pure despair.
And tears they claw
and sear my throat.
Inside I’m raw;
Outside composed.
No tears can clean
me from this pain,
For in my genes,
you are ingrained.
And here I face the precipice
of dying innocence
Swift were the wings of death
In their benevolence.
Jul 26, 2020
Jul 26, 2020 at 9:03 AM UTC
From heaven hangs a lonely branch,
And hidden from the city eyes,
Dangles a fruit from paradise.
The world, a noisy avalanche,
is blinded to the breathless sight.
Forbidden fruit asway at night.
From heaven flees a silver chain,
So intricate a work of art.
So jealous were the shining stars.
And people, with their broken brains,
saw not the jewel, saw not the spark
at the chain’s end to mock the dark.
From heaven, weary from its bliss,
sneaks a seraphic orb, a guest,
to keep our foolish lovers blessed.
And I can never dream to miss
his face when surly he descends.
We spill our hearts till the night ends.
Jul 25, 2020
Jul 25, 2020 at 4:52 PM UTC