Give even the saddest looking sapling
light, water, and most importantly: space,
and it shall become a tree.
A tree so tall and so full of foliage
that even the coldest of winters cannot ruin
an auspicious new spring.
Complimented by new leaves and sprouts.
The fossils of pictures and movies and songs within
that box are dug up.
Shown new light from the sapling turned tree.
A burned bridge denies access to the other side.
A burned bridge provides a road block.
A burned bridge creates new life and a new box.
A burned bridge yields the seeds of dandelions and grass.
This is my last love poem about you.
The butterflies have since moved, not migrated, but moved.
No trips planned ahead nor any reason to return.
Inside, the battle rages on:
To love, to forgive, or to forget?
Outside, experiences fill voids.
Like a Band-Aid on an open wound:
Love is a powerful tool.
Hatred is a powerful tool.
Indifference may be the most powerful.
That internal skirmish ceases and the external
emotional trips drift further and further away from that lonely island.
The move has been dramatic, yet necessary now.
At the start, it was a city;
Full of life and people and things to do.
Then the suburbs, less people, less things to do.
Next was the island: alone and isolated, but tranquility.
The homemade raft sets sail for a new destination.
Will it arrive in a bustling city port?
Or arrive at a small dock along a river?
The snake sheds it skin to begin anew.
Forget the genie and make your own bottle,
Write your own message,
And write your own history.
Wandering but trapped.
Like the coral beneath the ice.
Can't run, can't hide.
The water flows and consumes.
Traps and constricts.
Trapped beneath the ice
She flows like a river with no delta.
Like the wind with no trees or mountains.
Time will unfreeze they say.
But time has no watch.
Time has no clock.
That coral looks to the sky and to the clouds,
The shapes are gone as are the memories.
Slowly fading away,
Like the cirrus wisps against the blue sky,
Slowly fading away.
— The End —