Contorted within isolation I linger
In a pose of fallen reflections.
Each thrown from the nest to fly,
but fall like tombstones.
Barren of keys to unlock the gate
to let my musing fly free, instead
the feathers are silent and the
carcasses linger beneath me.
I was once free to soar far beyond my
reach, but now I'm a voiceless bird
caged within my self.
All I want to be is free.
Lingering afterimages of you collecting in
jars of my mind. I knew this was momentary
that it wasn't an eternity but a grain falling
beyond my reach, but I try to catch you.
Losing you even though your last breath
still warms upon me, your hair is an
ocean for my fingers to hold but like
water they wash through.
I feel the wondering of you heart,
like butterflies eclipsing they flutter
from you. If I could catch even one,
a prisoner of life,
hearing but a singular beat.
But you are lost to me, and that butterfly
motionless lying next to you.
I collected your memory in jars, but I
know I must let this last butterfly fly free.
I hear the rustling of the leaves colliding upon
the others like a bumper car ride but no one is driving.
Voicing in motions that they are moved silently.
I envision the swaying, like the crest of natures
wave coalescing like feathers in flight anchored
till the season ebbs there dance to a fall.
On a path of buttons she did sew upon her patchwork steps,
like silk they were upon this place each one delicately
thread. In a tale of one woven following the footpath
of seamless memories, but one can became untied from
the trail if not watching there untied thoughts instead.
Before silken steps knew any different, a broken button
did fray her stride. Looking around, she spoke in velvet
wording "Hello is there but a voice to guide my way,
But not a woven word did cross stitch upon the air.
All was not as she knew before, a place not quite fastened right.
Trees were torn, branches were hanging by loose thread, the
embroidered leaves tattered and worn like they had been
handled in wrong manners way to much. The road once sewn
in tasteful stitch, now scratched and broken like it had been discarded
without a pattern to weave a safe path, this wasn't as such.
Luckily for this little lady her silken steps were still fresh behind,
patterned in a way to follow her way back. Noises she heard of
fabric torn, not seeing it she hurried her motions to where the
buttons were polished woven in form, The trees were trimmed
the leaves elaborately stitched, and she sighed with relief.
She had learnt a lesson that was cross stitched into her thoughts.
That when one is walking always know where those silken steps are woven to the right path. For if a path becomes tattered and a place unknown, one was not taking steps to safety get home. Always weave a
thought from here to there, follow you buttons carefully to home instead.
Flushed aromas of seasonal rebirth,
hues coalesce within portraits woven
of motions colliding seeding the earth.
silk petals delicately handwoven.
Brushstrokes of nature weaving on daylight,
dewdrops lingering like teardrops on leaves.
Bees collecting nectar, resting from flight,
life flourishing, nature gracefully weaves.
Tame winds caressing elegant blossom
as tears of colour descend upon height.
Blankets of hues saturate emblossom
resembling cloud pictures, sketches re-create.
Surrounded by fallen tears, natures allure
caressing landscapes, spring delicately pure..