You and I will crack one day
The smoothness will all go away
And as our hairs fade into grey
Will the love still stay?

We promise love until the dust
But so often forget the rust
Failing frequently to discuss
What happens if nothing happens to us

The porcelain will splinter and chip
Marking, for some, where the veil rips
But my love lasts more than just a stint
Of smooth skin on my fingertips

For if the twilight fades the blue
It replaces it with countless hues
And so will grow my love for you
In seeing, remem’bring what we’ve gone through

You and I will crack, no doubt
But my love will faithfully pour out
To endless bound, in copious amounts
A quenching water from an undying spout

My dusty mind is filled
with old memories,
lost amongst poems
I dribbled on to the window sill
one morning.

I got lost in the shuffle of time,
thoughts brought me
ink drippings from
the night before,
though I already ate
the leftovers and smeared
my poems all over the walls.

You may join me
for a Gothic meel,
just don't forget to bring
your open minds
so I don't have to knock
or ring the bell.

Welcome to my gloomy day,
where black is happy,
blue is true, and the roses
withered at your feet
though they smell lovely.

(slowly the poems crumbled
in my mouth) the ofter taste
was lovely, a bit of gloom was
left hanging from my lips.

Such taboos I display,
should I speak in ghostly whispers,
so the spirit's can hear me too?

Shshsh!
I am not finished with you yet.

Come back soon and I will write you
another Gothic poem.

For I am the weathered poet.

© 2018 By Amanda Shelton

Games played at train stations
As we all just slide by
Our weathered eyes
Begin to crack.
We’ve dried up.
Become husks
As we drown in lassitude
“To the End!” we cried!

sunken in couches at coffee shops
have been loved too much
by too many

cushions gone lumpy
legs that can no longer support weight
coffee stains that will never come out

though there’s been many that have loved it
there hasn’t been one that has loved it enough

Stand alone
scratching the spine
of my open book.
I alone
touch this book
manipulate the spine.
They warn of the bright outside
When I see only dark

The last raindrop that hangs onto a branch, a twig
"droplet
let go, or evaporate", which one is the thing,
filter
fall down into the ground or fall up into the air,
                                              steamy but
water always finds the lowest point,
the water table quickly absorbs the fallen,
the sun so hot, sky lifts water up towards the heavens
in sheets
oh,... So looking forward to the last teardrop, eyes
                                                                                   too be
                                                                                     dry,
                                                                                  even for a little while.

I look at my hands sometimes
these old, battered appendages
this is how i see the world
this is how i feel
and they are weathered
scarred and hurt
but still they work
in pain and toil.

My hands are who i am
and they never will touch
you.