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Violet Smithe Apr 2015
A single drop of rain upon the ground.
Like lightning strike that struck rain soddened earth.
A monotonous voice rattles around,
It’s face lit in the depths of the stone hearth,
One light that will forever show me, you.
Path burdened with unforgiving sorrow.
To a life that waves a final adieu,
There’s an endless number of tomorrows.

But then tomorrow becomes yesterday
With the fading “Au Revoir” in the wind.
The distant trembles of sorrow that fray.
Closed eyes of the once forgiving and kind.
An undying love ceasing to exist,
As a leaf on a river set adrift.
Violet Smithe Mar 2020
When I first learned of color,
I entered a world of vivid possibilities.

When I heard my first sound,
I was no longer at a loss of words.

In the beginning,
Never once did I imagine the day
When it would all start to fade.

As the years past,
The world lost its shimmer.

No longer were the roses as red
Or the words on a page as crisp.

No longer was thunder's clap as loud
Or song of the wind as melodious.

Never once did I imagine
a gift once gained
would be stolen away.
Violet Smithe Apr 2015
Whispers of wind of what had once been there,
Curling through the melody of a lyre.
Sways through trees with the leaves in the air.

A crack in the ground is simply a tear
Where earth, in defeat, has begun to tire.
Whispers of wind of what had once been there.

Searching across a land that will lay bare.
A desolate wasteland where rain is dire.
Sways through trees with the leaves in the air.

A sea that turned to stone and dust. Once there
Were bronze skies, cities of crystal spires,
Whispers of wind of what had once been there.

An endless, beautiful sight. "I once cared".
Swirling image of dust through the empire,
Sways through trees with the leaves in the air.

The world was once fair, a girl had lived there,
With the sight of the world, before the fire.
Whispers of wind of what had once been there,
Sways through trees with the leaves in the air.
Violet Smithe May 2015
Life may become distant
But time moves on
We explore
Even as the rain continues to pour
Cyclones rage
While we turn the page
People may draw the line
But this is my life
For it’s a piece of art
May it come from the heart.
Violet Smithe May 2015
It was a tragedy like no other.
It was a memory that could not have been erased.
It was the choice that begged.
It was a risk I needed to take.

It was another world.
It was the one last option.
It was faith.
It was destiny.
It was life.

It was style.
It was glamour.
It was serene.
It was peace.

It was a song that sang
It was a voice that spoke
It was a mind that dreamed
It was a soul that hoped

It was a feeling like no other
It was a figure that would not disappear
It was a thought of me
It was a dream of you

It was the voice that once spoke
It was those whispers in my ears
It was the name I called
It was the thing that answered

**It was you
Violet Smithe Mar 2020
Prep.
Weight on my back foot.
Leap.

The sound of the final chord rang out around me.

Silence.

All I could hear was silence.

As though the room was empty and I,
I was its only subject.

With a stillness in my heart I stood,
took my bow,
and left.
Violet Smithe May 2015
In the lightly lit path in shown by the moon
I sauntered forward to face my doom.
I walked through the pond
Shallow water swirled against my ankles.
The water that lay below splashed
With every step I took.
Every drop was something I left behind,
Something to say goodbye,
Every tear I bared.
The familiar path I once knew,
Was now the mystery of the new beginning.
Violet Smithe Apr 2015
When I was younger
I stood there waiting.
I stood there,
Waiting for someone who would not come,


Back,


Against the cold damp wall I stood,
As an unwanted postage stamp,


Forgotten,


Waiting to be remembered.
I watched,
As I stood there.
Violet Smithe May 2015
Oh what I see,
What I see it to be,
What I perceive,
What I dream,
Oh what I thought it to be.

What I see,
Not what I saw,
What they think,
But not thought.

Oh the devilish thing
When it hits you
It hits you with a bang
The one thing.

The sight of a rose
A red rose
Cowering under a dense canopy of leaves
Leaves in a endless forest
Is it really red
How could you know what you've seen
Seen what you believed you see
Not what you saw.

A world turned upside down
Hoped to be righted
A thought of feeling swept the minds,
Wronged once more
Then righted again
Like a click of a lock
Or the crack of light,
Light that streams through a door.

Seeing is believing
But are we truly perceiving,
Perceiving the knowledge of our very beings.
We erase our problems
In reality everything sticks around
We are a brick in a solid wall
Is believing really seeing
Are we the right in the wrong
The upside in the downside
The answer in the question
The thought in the mind
The see in the sight
The voice in the silence
The meaning in things small
The black in the white
The sight in the blind
The message in the song
The red in the rose
The rose in the trees
The rose weʼll never see
The colorless rose in which we perceive to be red
Is it?

I think not.
Violet Smithe May 2015
She stood there,
Just stood there

Against the cold damp wall of the orphanage.

She just stood there,
Just stood there

As she watched the woman walk away.

Thumb in her mouth,
Rag doll in her hand

With lifeless blue eyes that stared out at nothing.

She’ll not know what is to become of her,
She’ll not know if she is to change the world,
Or to just be another face among the crowd.

She’ll not know whether significance will ever have any meaning to her.

She’ll never know.
Violet Smithe May 2015
Every night I dream...
Every night I’m afraid...
Every night there’s no end to what is coming.
Every night I know what’s going to happen and choose not to believe
Every night I ride in my car,
I look up at the moon and there’s a face staring back at me,
And whenever I drive through a streetlight
I’m afraid the lights are enclosing me
There’s no way out.
I’m trapped forever more
I’m afraid for what is coming . . . . .
Violet Smithe Apr 2015
The sound of rain like whispers in my ears,
The soft sweet sound of the pitter-patter.
Although it may be silence that I hear,
I find that it truly does not matter.
Like a million lights of an endless dream.
The past I see was only meant to be,
Washed away by rain, revealing a seam.
An abyss that was only meant for me.

But I will not stare at this endless rain.
Nor will I find the thing for which I came.
This endless dream I may never attain,
For this my life, will never be the same.
It is here now that I see the past.
Like whispers of rain that may never last.

— The End —