Here I cross the Rue

Bouzarés, not on the map --


only in my mind.

You glance up once again
from the rediscovered photo,
sellotape stained and saved
for this future finding.

You hold me yet again in
the honesty of your peaceful smile,
in that shared perfect moment
catching us all unaware.

But that was just before our fall
into confusion, into the fog
that suddenly enveloped you
and robbed us all completely.

But now you return to mind
and I can return your smile
once again.

She remembers
when the light
was filled
with silent ghosts.  
They would flicker in and out
in the cigarette smoke  
of the theater,  
each frame
an ashy wisp,
a burnt offering.
The story spooling out
in the air
was a familiar one.
The  sentiment
caught in her heart
and  made her cry.  
  
Years later,  
she went back,
after the smoke
was banned
and only the light
was permitted to filter.
The ghosts  
talked to her, now-
but it was no longer
a sacred thing.
There were profane words
and the noise hurt her ears.
In this night  light  
there were no  
familiar family faces.
Everything was clear,  
startling new and strange
and all the colors
too bright  for her eyes
to bear.
And it was then
she knew
she would die
in this nightmare dream.

In the forest, near the splashes
Of the botanical garden's waterfall,
Our love was seated.
You held my hand,
At the picnic we had spread out,
And we lay in the grass
It pricked us,
Because autumn was already approaching,
And it carried the dry scent
That withered grass always holds.

Our love was probably more childlike,
Something more pure,
Than one filled with seductive emotions.
You would give me a small souvenir
At every meeting,
And in the evening, you would walk me home.

The music I listened to back then
Brings back memories,
Rising once more to the surface.

Our love is over,

however, never forget --


that it has been real.

There was blood on my hands
but it wasn't mine
even if I wish that were the case for that moment
I couldn't risk it
the choice was to **** or be killed
my palms were oozing with the color red
my adrenaline was racing in loops
the man that I killed was considered my enemy
but in the eyes of my enemies on the other side
he was known as man with a purpose
a dream that he wanted to fulfill
he wanted to become a singer
to be the main lead in his church choir
singing chants of the holy name till dawn
but ever since the war
he had to put his dream on hold
now he had to sing for a new revolution

With the sound of the trigger
I caused his dream to be silenced forever
but it's not like I wanted to do that
It was either me or him
I drop my gun onto the ground and run towards him
his body was cold like ice
but his eyes were still shimmering
his head was looking straight at the heavens
I cradle his head gentle
whispering my sincere apologies in his ear
my comrades reach to where I am
asking me if I was okay numerous of times
but I was too ashamed to speak
I bury my head onto his chest
hoping that I can find a heartbeat
but it was too late to check
he is now singing with the angels

After the war has finally passed
I walk across death beds of the fallen
I put flowers on each of their graves
until I reached to his
I put my hand on his tombstone
my hands are now forever dry
but the memory still aches between my fingertips

A seraphic grand piano, besmirched with blood and fervent,
Scattered across old alabaster keys, Ichor stains scores of parchment.

Stewed passion runs wildly across the docile tempo,
Mellifluous effervescence lingers in the gored vestiges of a crescendo.

Memories of artistic vigour shrivel and regress,
Our blissful felicity of mellifluence, slaughtered by organic evanesce.