Words By: Melancholy Of Innocence
A place where love awakens with silent truth un-binding

A breath a speechless word whispered by an eye's caress
anchored deep within inside my naked soul's undress.  
Here lies the force of my love, in truth I must confess,  

I am a butterfly in flight, a rose drenched in morning dew
awakened by your innocence I cannot help but love you
Like the flowers need the rain, I need you too

One touch one blink and this moment turns to air  
softer than perfume gentler than a whisper barely there
Like stars of heaven, you're beyond compare !!!

Heaven is a place where only with the eyes of hope,  
                               can it truly co-exist !  
Heaven is a special place where innocent children,  
                                       become Angels !
Heaven is a journey for those who believe in
                                     the after life !
Heaven is at the centerpoint of every loving being who  
                      longs to find their loved ones once again !
Heaven is the venue of those who believe and trust
                                   that we will one day return
Heaven is Michelangelo's Last Judgement at the Alter wall
                                      of the Sistine Chapel !
Heaven is a whereabout, a location vageuly represented
                                          and understood only with the heart
Heaven is a place of Salutation for  the rich and the  poor            
                                     everyone is welcome in heaven !

She was 'Autumn'—
warm, but always leaving
A soul stitched from golden light
and goodbyes she never stopped grieving

He was 'Winter'—
quiet, distant,
carving silence into the world
like someone used to resistance

They met
in the blur between late November
when leaves forget to hold on
and snow begins to remember
She smiled like the last fire in a cabin
He stared like someone who knew
the cost of warmth
and what it meant to lose it too soon

She spoke in colors—
scarlets and golds
words that cracked like twigs
but healed like poems never told
He answered in stillness
like frost on glass,
afraid that every touch
would make him shatter at last

But even frost can soften
Even storms can learn to stay
And slowly
she didn’t run
and he didn’t push her away
He let her fall apart in his arms
like leaves too tired to pretend
and she let his cold truth hold her—
not to fix
but to mend

They didn’t belong—
not in the way seasons are told
but somehow, in the ache of each other
they began to unfold

And there
in a world where nothing was meant to last
where autumn leaves and snowflakes
both belong to the past—
they built something quiet
something unknown—
a rhythm,
a whisper,
a heartbeat for a home.


Erennwrites

Once upon a time, I scratched out
verses in dozens to a girl over the sea -
O, I was no naif, two divorces

had cooked me down to syrup,  
my heart was leather-withered,
wary of wonderlands and Technicolor.

Yet I held faith that love might
be the blossom and not the vine -
even as she closed her interior doors,

even as we came rapidly to zugzwang.
In a broken green betrayal
I watched Dix Pour Cent for hours,

tried to sell away the lonely murk,
trade inconstant moon for steady sun,
Akhenaten in a third-floor studio

for two and half years of sag and salt.
But as often happens time and chance
hewed new love and now I sit with her

in a tiny theater to see Romeo and Juliet;
Romeo just took four shots of rail whisky
to the delight of the wet blurry mouths

that roar from clay-thick shadows
beyond the clutch-cloth footlight fringe.
After the lovers die in stony Verona

we leave and somehow end up at Stan's,
a bricky subterrestrial parlor where
with cocktails we thresh from our heads

the melancholy of a troubled world:
sirens mourn the mauveness of evening
& clouds are killed, ripped to wisp.

I’m a friend of darkness
lock lips with it
in a lover’s embrace

I mourn the dawn
beg favors from the twilight
hold every hope
in my uncertain hand
for a day when the sun won’t shine

And I know
by my wayward feet
by the tremors in my hand
that darkness creeps silently
up to my borders
crosses every line
and will someday defeat
my meager defenses

I have prepared my retreat
a forced march
to the grey Pacific
where everything in my life
ends
and begins

The solemn swell of the waves
a fitting harmony
to that last sweet song.

I was thinking about the blast
of neon colors in a film
and the New Wave Music
and Marie Antoinete pastels

But in my childhood
it was as if we had other hues,
a small box of crayons at hand,
or that the world was seen through
Kodachrome film.

There were lollipop reds and purple
and dungaree blues, lake and skies,
lemon ice yellows, setting suns
and lush summer green.

In scratched lenses, children seemed to play
as if inspired by the living colors,
imagining that their lives would last forever.
And even as they grow, it immortalizes them.

But, like life, the colors decay
and we gaze at scenes of sepia and moss,
with ochre grass and reds turned brown.
We must attune memory to remember more.

And using suspension of disbelief,
Elders, middle-aged and children gather
Like the neolithic ceremonies meant for gods,
But celebrate, not the stars or stones,
Rather the lives we have lived or have yet to taste.

I realized I pushed too far
Inside nature
Stepping over icy boughs
Green needles frozen in time
My heart pounding
Exhausted of the cycle.
There are no birds circling above,
There are no words of comfort.
Just a quiet calm broken up
By the clicks and arthritic pops
Of heavy limbs and twisted gnarled
Fingers holding me in place.
I sit and smile at the crunching in the snow
Remembering the wonderful sound
My boots made trudging back home
For hot chocolate and warmth.