The pen and my paper
my Lord and my Savior
Still all my days
remain so dark

Black blood , red ink
The thoughts on the brink
The sponge soaks up pain
Called my heart

The window and the glass
The curtain and the sash
There is no relief
On either side

I don't know how life became what it is
Sometimes it let's me go so down

I pound on the door
It won't open any more
The agony ending days
Remain unsealed

The blue of the sky
Just makes me want to cry
The emptiness of the void
scares me . . . to death

Volumes of paper
Each page my forsaker
My life is there
For all to see

You are a benevolent visitor
Inaudible as my dreams
Everything you touch
Turns to crystal and white

Oh how my eyes delight
In your beautiful patterns
As you lay quietly upon glass
Can you stay forever?

My flesh abhors you
For the sting you administer
yet Autumn's half-stripped trees
Wear you as a morning garment

I do blame the sun
As it shortens your reign
Your brevity intensifies my desire
To see you on the morrow

Autumn is fading
Trees once clothed with amber leaves
Stand exposed again

You ask me,
Do I miss you?
How can I miss you?
You are always with me,
Your face behind my eyes,
Your soul sleeping in my heart,
The essence of you dances for me,
Sinuous curves shimmy within shadows.

You ask me,
Do I love you?
You should be asking,
How much you love me?
Then measure that feeling,
Holding it tightly deep inside,
Knowing that I feel just the same,
With every single fibre of my being.

You ask me,
Do I miss you?
Perhaps, I might sigh,
The very truth, though,
Is that I miss you terribly,
Is that part of me aches for you,
Though we are intrinsically entwined,
Sometimes, such closeness is not enough.

You ask me,
Do I love you?
Do you need to ask?
I live and breathe you,
As you live and breathe me,
Your roads lead to me, woman,
I am by your side, holding your hand,
One day, we will surely arrive together.

You ask me,
Do I miss you?
Everyday baby,
Never doubt it is so,
My pain is like your own,
Insomnia, numbing, yearning,
Hiding tears in the soft darkness,
But knowing, we will be free, one day.

©Paul M Chafer 2015

...are showers that come in april, unexpected;
sparks and bursts of fireworks that overwhelm
a new year's eve...and revivify a lethargic world,
with sweet music that plays on, and on, and on...
...cup brims with adjectives that speak wonderfully
of the purest of emotions, like an invisible smile
of the heart, or, a smile too shy, but can't be hid
while imagining first times, face to face situations...
...verbs and adverbs give truth to action, and reaction,
like the soft, sweet giggles that start, when hearing
a voice, or a new accent...the pounding of the heart,
when the phone rings, and conversation flows easy
and honest, time doesn't matter anymore...voices
go soft, then loud, yet, still charming and melodic;
the whispered weary sighs sighed when waiting, or
when goodnights, or temporary goodbyes are
uttered....all are vividly felt, and heard...

...these spurts and blasts of joy,
are sources of metaphors...they capture
the essence of moments sublime...giving them
life and color, making them last in one's memory...

...it is a God-given moment, when true feelings
are manifested...recognized....and appreciated...
ink refuses to run dry, when reliving in writing,
incomparable moments of joy....


Sally

Copyright December 31, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan