Never fall in love with a poet.
They will break you apart
like stanzas.
You are a metaphor,
a simile, an oxy-
*****.
Never fall in love with a poet.
They will tear you apart
like a rough draft,
burn you, and then
call it art.

© A. Leigh

the first time I saw you smile
I understood photosynthesis
I knew then why
flowers died
without the sun and
how my entire life
I had been wilting
Slowly
without your warmth
then I heard you speak,
your mouth poured honey
So sweet
I was positive you kept
bees in the root of your teeth
I didn’t even know you
and yet I was convinced
I would grow to love you
you told me your name
and I cried
Silently
at how beautiful it was
H, I don’t think you understand
see I had spent the hours of
sleepless nights carving you
into my bones
so much so that you had already
become apart of my skeleton
before you even knew who I was.
and you learning who I am was
the best part. I watched
Fireflies
erupt in your eyes as I told
you my favorites of everything
and I had grown so accustomed
to seeing that
Light
in your eyes
I didn’t even noticed when it
Faded.
see I had dug you into
my bones, so even when you
Left
you still weren’t
Gone.

.
In a costume of conflicting emotion,
of crossing diamondic colour,
with regal posture in grief,
the Harlequin and the King,
a display of opposites
creating a composite being,
that eases her body
gently into the waiting water,
to float away serene,
on her journey to the nether.

Midnight blue and emerald green,
the regalia of ermine,
both ostentatious and humble,
robeing the aspects,
understated in crowning splendour,
the gentleman King bows,
and the Harlequin laughs,
the bi-polar reaction
to the tragedy of misfortune,
with a sting in the myth-tale.

With the dark hues of mourning,
a legend passes on her way,
across the streams of time,
on a voyage to discover herself,
carrying her Harlequin in a purse,
holding her King to her breast,
owning them both in her heart,
the medicine wheel spins,
knowing the grapes of wrath
yield the wine of spite.

The motley speckles of attire,
a starry parody of night skies,
lighting the decorated funeral barge,
gliding along the rivers of space,
worn with the mantle of sorrow,
and it sails into the sunset,
as the Harlequin and King observe,
the mandala turns,
the bier of the Queen departing,
bears their sadness forth.

The Harlequin laughs and laughs 'til he cries,
his heart grows cold, then withers and dies,
whilst the King, statuesque, memoirs his life,
lamenting the legend of a Queen, his wife.



© Pagan Paul (24/07/18)

The world alone is not enough
        It was never a shade of me

Though from the earth, the straw men rise and fall
        There also blows the breeze
        More beautiful than all once seen