As leaves fall off the branches
So do your words upon the ground
Ebbing and flowing like waves
That wash away the stillness of the coast
Watching your lips move, I think
How could such simplicity bring such consolation
And I bask in the soft comfort of sound
Filling me with an undisturbed peace.
I wonder if my words mean the same to you
As I stare at your moonlit eyes in silence
If eyes are windows to the soul, then
The wind has blown the curtains closed
For you remain a beautiful mystery to me
And no words of yours can change the fact
That I won’t see you again.
And even though I barely said a thing
It’s okay, because when I look outside,
At the snow-covered world, and see that
the last leaf has fallen, leaving
the branches empty and forsaken
I realize, that maybe silence isn’t so bad after all.
I breathe in your last scent, so sweet and sad
And as the last leaf hits the ground,
So does my last word to you- Hello.
Jun 19, 2020
Jun 19, 2020 at 5:37 AM UTC
sea waves blue, smooth as a silk sheet are
gently lapped by chilly December air
my skin prickles as the air leaves
goosebumps on my bare arms. i try to
ignore them as the frosty gale bites into my clothless skin.
boats are tethered to shore, no longer
roaming far at sea, they have a home at least
though only temporary, but a safe sanctuary. i wonder
where the people are, perhaps safe and warm and cozy
in the comfort of their fireplaces and families.
i lay down on the barren grass, now mere stubs that too
***** my skin, they were once lively and green under the shade of a once blooming tree,
now limbless and leafless,
a mere trunk of wood that stands stubbornly on a patch of forgotten ****
as nighttime falls the boat lights come on, setting patches
of deep blue ablaze, like a fire it spreads and spreads until
you can no longer see the depths of aquamarine,
and maybe just maybe pretend to yourself that they
never even existed.
maybe grass needs to be barren before spring brings shrubs and
trees decapitated before they can bloom again,
maybe matches need to be lit
and places burnt to ashes
before the past can fall away like a brittle husk.
I look up to the cloud-filled sky, blue dotted with specks of white and
perhaps there is no heaven beyond those clouds,
no god near welcoming doors, and
if all prayers are just a shout into the empty void
then perhaps all we can do is
shout.
Jun 19, 2020
Jun 19, 2020 at 5:19 AM UTC