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..
And through the changes
In his silence I could tell


Something's been missing
There oh so well

And I can remember once
Me standing there
Him sitting behind

And though I knew he's there
I was scared he'd be
Nowhere else to find

And through the changes
In his silence I could tell


How was I to fall in love
Into the spheres
Every young girl fell
You knocked
and I opened so quickly
it was almost as if I were expecting you

You smiled
and it was the only time
I could control my mind whilst losing it

You kissed
and blank was the world
of past and future (it was only you and now)

You left
and what could I do but write
this poem about so little happiness in

man’s life
for A.H.
 Dec 2016 Martin Palatický
Holly
December is a cold month.
So cold.
So incomplete.

A time when nature dies,
Along with parts of me.

December is a month of dreary days.
Lit up with lights to mask the pain.

Holiday spirit.
Just an excuse to drink.

Food, family, friends.
It's all just more fuel to think.

I grew up to understand the Grinch.
Whose heart became so small.

And although these lights do warm me,
I want to crush them all.

December is a month of lies and of deceit.
It's not at all about spirit, rather a receipt.

I'd prefer sit alone.
A fireplace and a book.

Than sit along beside others, to have my heart led astray by some crook.
(I)

Pale mulberry was the sky,
No bird dared to fly!
Thus all seemed wrong,
But then, you came along
Suddenly like summer rain
And quelled away my pain.

(II)

Velvet blue was the sky,
No bird dared not to fly!
Thus all seemed right,
And as pure as a cloud in white,
When suddenly like the rainbow,
You quelled away thy heavenly glow.

(III)

Dark grey is the sky,
No bird seems to ever fly!
Athwart my wild blue yonder
Where I, indignantly do ponder
Night and day wondering why,
We can't give it just one more try.

(IV)

Pitch black is always the sky,
But, faster than any bird I'll fly!
Swifter than a scudding cloud
Whilst calling upon you so loud,
All the way to a strange plain,
Just to ever feast about you again.

(V)

Magenta magic will always be the sky,
When once again we'll merilly fly!
Then, flowers once again shall bloom,
To see you and me as bride and groom
By a placid Mulberry Moon on the rise,
To kindle our enchanted paradise.



©Kikodinho Alexandros
Jumeira, Dubai
1st December 2016
***!!! Can't really believe it that among the myriads upon myriads of beautiful poems here at HP, this poem has turned up the daily. Thank you so much dear friends to have catapulted me to stardom for the second time...I'm really all gratitude.

#Retrospection
#Nostaligia
#Lonesome
#Craving
#Wishing
You know,
World is full of
Broken people & broken thoughts,
And though everything hurts
And it might be worse,

They're all somewhere there
On this vast night's course
Any day now, you'll admit
The truth has yellow eyes,
Even if the heart's what hurts the most.

Though back then
We all could swore
We couldn't get any more

Let's put it this way:
Someone came just to break a heart
But that's not what I came here for.
..and how is it that each story got only one ending?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the ****** and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to ***** up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?
the history of melancholia
includes all of us.
me, I writhe in ***** sheets
while staring at blue walls
and nothing.
I have gotten so used to melancholia
that
I greet it like an old
friend.
I will now do 15 minutes of grieving
for the lost redhead,
I tell the gods.
I do it and feel quite bad
quite sad,
then I rise
CLEANSED
even though nothing
is solved.
that's what I get for kicking
religion in the ***.
I should have kicked the redhead
in the ***
where her brains and her bread and
butter are
at ...
but, no, I've felt sad
about everything:
the lost redhead was just another
smash in a lifelong
loss ...
I listen to drums on the radio now
and grin.
there is something wrong with me
besides
melancholia.
there are worse things than
being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it's too late
and there's nothing worse
than
too late.
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