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Chris Lazzaro Apr 2019
Over the hills
nightingales sing
to the chime of bells
ringing across  
English fields.

There, the lovers lay,
admiring the beautiful
blue spring day.

Out on the blanket
they roll with laughter,
recalling old memories,
and dreaming of dreams after.

Her beauty, a treasure
one truly adored.
A life without her
he could not afford.

As the sun sets
behind the hills,
his eyes begin to
fill with tears.

He leans in,
for a kiss,
only to feel a
cold, hard cheek.
Pulling back with haste,
a cry, a scream.

He rolls with anguish
recalling same memories
without dreams after.
Dark clouds appear,
her hand not near.

A rose placed
at her head, underneath.  
The lovers lay,
separated from her
by six feet deep.
Chris Lazzaro Apr 2019
So tiny are we when compared to thee,
we forget just how small we are.

But fractions of dust upon that which we lust, hoping to make us large.

How petty are things when compared to the rings of cries heard everywhere.

From the sky, but specks of time trying to make their mark.

Anon we will be gone, unable to long for that which we regret.

Take thy name, not in vain, and follow that golden heart.

A sleigh drawn by animal spirits, shall we now begin to live?
Chris Lazzaro Mar 2019
My thoughts are the hammer
My tongue, the trigger
My words, bullets to be sprung.
For I am a loaded gun.

Delicately pulled to a click
Gums and lips, greased and slick
The barrel has already been spun
For I am a loaded gun.

Pressure between my cheeks
Words spoken, ejected from my teeth
The invisible lead is still warm
For I am a loaded gun

I reek of smoke and Ash
Fire is on my breath
There is nowhere to escape or run
For I am a loaded gun.

They do cry and choke
Not accepting those words I spoke
Realities something to be forlorn.
For I am a loaded gun

Penetrating through their chest
that iron lays on their every breath
Hearts ripped and torn
For I am that loaded gun.

Something to be feared
Something to be adored  
I am often met with scorn
For I am a loaded gun.

Pointed at their nose
eyes tight and closed
Contentment, something to be warned.
I am a loaded gun.

A gun under your chin
Is enough to make you think
to never go unsung
For we each should carry a loaded gun.
Chris Lazzaro Mar 2019
Do you ever stay up at night staring at that blank page?

The same waxy coat and thin blue lines you've been fixated on since the third grade,

waiting for it to speak to you and show you the way.

Promises of endless possibilities, confined indefinitely
to the bars spread across the parchment cage.

Holding back the strokes of ink and every thought we think,

there is no escaping the script of tomorrow or the words of yesterday.

Aren't you tired of writing in between the lines?

Or fear that you've wasted your time?

If so just remember, not even poetry has rules to its rhyme.
Chris Lazzaro Mar 2019
Although life slips away like sand through glass,
I continue to defy death,
for each breath is not yet my last.
Chris Lazzaro Feb 2019
Incorrect sometimes
the things we see.
Claws on the
bed room walls,
but branches
in a heavy breeze.
Or a door creek
from a suspected stranger.
Instead a gust of wind
the breath of mother nature.
A house burning
to the ground,
in reality a fireplace,
smoke spouting about.
Disappoint or relief,
in what we see.
So how should
we view the grin
from behind her dripping cheeks?
Chris Lazzaro Feb 2019
Faces of plastic, covered in wax, greased with the oils of appeal.

Forever Frozen, rigid and cold, lasting winters of years.

Bearing a smile, shallow and hollow, to gain that other’s ear.

How often we are told, we must avoid, anything that causes us fear.
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