Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
when it hit you home.

you’re eyes closed at shutter speeds,
when the heart sinks,
or sank.
and each blink individually,
starts to take a second of your life from me,
frivolously.
and your mind focuses,
but like a broken lens,
you nictate, nictate,
like you’re stuck on repeat.
and you dictate the aftermath,
like you have admitted defeat.
as cynosure slips from your fingertips.
the closure in the locus.
you spoke to me in hindsight,
and you spared me in the moment.
still glowing, albeit, caliginously.
you described the bright lights in defiance,
lying sweetly,
in a conversation, in constellations,
i’ll remember you in full bloom;
in keepsakes;
we wished to the the stars aligned,
shining flowers for you in the nights sky.
whilst you fought for your life, in kind.
high as a kite, twinkle in your eye,
as you guide your life
away.
still in spite,
of your perdition,
the latest addition of you.
when i see you in ruin.
through the body as it mortifies,
and your fortified smile,
tortured denial,
a defiant forcefield,
shatters and eviscerate,
and as you evaporate;
i see your lips crack through dryness,
my queen and highness;
i’ve not seen you laugh for a while.
and as I see time pass,
from you astute,
a calmness in your eyes grew,
and now when you belly laugh,
you gasp for air,
it’s as if,
not much is inside there.
as you stutter and stammer,
judgement impaired,
scared.
and yellow coloured,
tinged skin,
bed ridden
in affliction,
to me,
to you.
as it dawned on me
and then it dawned on you.
when it finally hit you home,
nothing left but skin and bones,
the final petal of a rose,
fell.



**I still miss you.
I miss you still.
I always have,
always will.
On this earth I've wandered
For nearly a thousand years
I'm tired, nothing new
Nothing left to fear
People always ask
Where they've seen my face
Well, a portrait of me does hang
In a museum in Paris place
And another in London,
Beautifully framed with grace
In Paris, my own selfportrait
With my little girl, you see
I was then known as Madame
Elizabeth Vigre Labrun
That was my favorite time, back in 1783
Then again I was painted as "Circe"
By Sir Edward Burne-Jones
That was the year 1880
God rest Sir Edwards bones
By the year 1919
When all the world was at war
I set sail for America
To see what else time had in store
I've changed my name and place
Hundreds of thousands of times
The only things that have stayed the same
Are my loves, art and rhyme
I decided on the name Amanda
To use in this day and age
I try so hard to fit into this modern book
My worn and tattered page
We  had  a  strange  coffee  morning  today.
Instead  of  coffee  and  biscuits.
We  had  coffee  and  buttered  toast.
It  went  down  well  with  the  people.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.
The Lady had him chained
In that white, tile room
Where she'd spent many painful hours
Contemplating her doom
The police didn't even
Have a clue he was missing
The Lady hired a *******
Who drugged him while kissing
The poor dumb *****
As a witness was silenced
She lay dead in the alley way
Her death, it was violent
Now, in the white tile room
He'd been bleeding all the while
The Lady stood outside the door
Wearing a murderous smile
He awoke with a scream
Looked around, saw fingers missing
He remembered fading out
While he and the ***** had been kissing
Realising where he was
His bleeding body began to shake
He knew The Lady was taking revenge
For all his ****** mistakes
Many nights he'd chained her here
Just to hear her scream
But now he was in her place
Like a bad ******* dream
Outside the door he heard a noise
It was a murderous humming
He knew that sound well
It was a chainsaw running
The Lady stepped through the door
Rage on her face
He struggled to get away
But he would lose this race
The Lady revved the chainsaw up
He started to beg
The Lady wouldn't hear it
And off came his leg
Now that white tile room
Wasn't white anymore
Blood, fingers, and body parts
Littered the floor
The Lady slid down the wall
Sat down and took a breath
Now all around her
Was the sight and smell of death
The Lady didn't mind
No, she didn't care
Because in Love and war
All is fair
The black of mascara
creates a stark contrast
among a beautiful, perfect face,
while her heart is devoid
yet consumed within.
She sits in a dark lone corner
gently sobbing with feeble fingers
folding over ashen lips,
where no light can reach her
no touch can near her
and wan lips whispering silently
into the echoing of empty long halls,

*"I only wished to have someone love me..
as much as I loved him..."
 Mar 2016 Echoes Of A Mind
jos
you've changed.
I don't know when you did.
you left me here feeling so alone and neglected.
I know you've stopped abusing your body,
with blades at least.
you drink a lot now.
I know you get drunk to forget.
you think it helps with the pain.
I see you drink day after day.
you only let people touch you when you're drunk.
I know you don't like it.
you pretend not to care about yourself.
I have a hard time caring about you too,
when you can't even care for me.
you look in the mirror every day and see me staring back.

I've changed and I don't know when I did.
Next page