Maybe it's been written
somewhere in the constitution
of the waning moon
― When somebody loves you,
you can never be lonely ―
to the contrary,
the moon is sometimes blue;
counting stars alone
in a sky full of stars
is just about as lonely
as 'once in a blue moon'
can be ―
Like when the night is yours alone
or feeling alone
in a crowded room
hearing Hank Williams moan within your silence
"I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry"
― When it's hard to say
you love someone,..
but it's harder to say
when you don't ―
• • •
A coyote's pleading howl
breaks the silent twilight engulfing trance
cast by the dappled moonlight;
like there's some kind of lonely madness
swallowing him whole,..
these two hollow eyes
gaze out through
the open window,
counting stars ― alone
in a sky full of stars
the crackle of the fireplace
echoes, startling the silence
of a feigned warmth
from the other side
of an otherwise hollow room
and i feel frayed as a hole in an empty pocket with nothing left to lose
the impending dark winter nights are lonesome
and linger longer than before ...
seeing the empty space beside me
I remember how it really really aches to just be ...
lonesome as a blue moon ―
✩ ✩ ✩
✩ ✩ ✩
moonless ― rivers ... 2017
I'm so sorry I assumed you loved me
as much as I loved you.
That in my hubris filled state of mind
I missed my que.
I'm so sorry to have been so blind.
I should have known you'd be so cold.....
Its almost to much for my soul to alone to hold.
maybe I made you more than man in my head,
I made you a hero, a King.
who'd be with me til the very end
when in reality you showed no
hesitation in cutting our thread.
graceful steps, no sound when her feet touch the ground
-- like her feet are feathers and she’s the bird, tied down
every movement of hers is subtle and subdued and almost slow
for no reason but to be quiet – ah, there it is
she did it wrong
she apologizes but—it’s never okay
there is a circle around her wrist,
it’s a bracelet of distrust, discolored and discernible
too much so maybe
and she tiptoes
arched up like she’s taking flight but then she never does
black markings on her arm like a collar; holding her back
holding her down or maybe just holding her
-- in place, unmoving and unchanging away from the torrent of time
or right in there, aging her fast and soon she’ll be unable
Boiling clouds approach the dawn,
a profusion of sinister foreboding,
banking up to obscure the day,
a menacing storm just reloading.
A figure runs across the moor,
panic and purpose in hostile flight,
pursued relentless across the heather,
desperately chasing the receding night.
A treeline beckons promising safety,
a disguise from the hunters view,
open ground slips passed slowly,
the forests sanctuary calls anew.
I wake startled, heart hammering in my chest,
fight or flight images seek my mind to infest.
The pounding in my head, hooves on a forest floor,
provoke shivers, as rivulets upon a dampened moor.
My breathing slows and sweat dries upon my skin,
a sense of belonging starts to grow from within.
Dazed I slip sideways out of my comfort bed,
and stare into the mirror at the antlers on my head.
I return to the bed and casually slide back in,
wondering where my fantasy dreams had been,
but all I discovered was another fitful sleep
as the images form of a treasure I keep.
Memory bubbles up and I am in a glade,
sun shining bright and sat in the shade.
Billhook and bow saw propped by a tree,
the life in the forest feeling good to me.
Peace and tranquility, I counted my luck,
when out of the trees sprang a young buck.
So fragile but already magnificent and proud,
stomping his hooves, snorting out loud.
Brave and insolent he looked at my eyes,
staring me down, holding caution so wise.
A look passed between us, a mute reflection,
an instant mind meld of atavistic connection.
I was He and He was me,
my spirit guide for eternity.
And the sun shone upon us in that glade,
the forest spirits celebrating that bond made.
With failing energy, tired from the chase,
a thought of doom and my senses race.
Taking rest in the heart of a clearing,
a quick twang and the pain is searing.
Surrounded in a trap the hunters prepared,
there is no way of escape, I am ensnared.
The loosed arrows point is sharply felt,
as a crimson flood stains my pelt.
Mind is swooning and my legs bend.
This is not how the Old Tales end ...
The scythe of Death merrily reaps,
lightening strikes, thunder rolls.
The frigid grave waits so silent,
empty, for he whom the bell tolls.
Boiling clouds obscure Dawns pale skies,
as the hunters horn in triumph it cries.
This is the End, when the dream dies.
My heart is still and I gently close my eyes.
© Pagan Paul (11/11/17)