I saw you as arrayed in Heaven, full halo, fulminata. Your eyes were river water, your breast a fleur de lis; radiating a magnificence I could never comprehend, even should the Fates bend their knees and grant me eternity to study your wiles and ways.
There was beauty, yes; but also was sheen unlike anything, indescribable, even by the shapes of the ancient constellations and the wisdom of our Greek and Roman fathers. You were unknown and unknowable, undiscovered and undiscoverable. Is it any wonder that I fell in love?
And you were willing. That should have sealed the deal and set me running away. But no, I had courage then, and a gem upon my brow. I wanted you.
Who could see Desire as the harbinger of doom? She is too beautiful, diamonds gild and resplendent on her fingertips, carved out of the Earth’s still-beating heart. I should have pierced the smoke and mirrors, to see the billowing black robes. I should have seen the glittering scythe, but no, my breath was gone, and love forbade me inhale.
I held my throat and smiled.
I did not think to guard my lungs; after all, we have those bones, those ribs. Fragile twigs plinked away, chromatic scales played out in misery’s key.
I could not see the music. I could not read the lie. After all, you still met my gaze forthwith, a proud goddess undiminished by the advent of satellites and the many crowns of men. I still thought you beautiful.
I, the fool.
I have cast our love in drama, because it is easier to remember it that way. Perhaps if I draw out the embellishments, hold the notes with a slight crescendo, I can make the story seem more beautiful than it was.
But it boils down to a simple truth: you hurt me, I hurt you. No, you did not list my sins in verse as I have yours, but you are not a poet and chances are, you have moved on.
But I remember you — further proof of my idiocy. I would cast you to the winds and forget your name, if I knew only how.
This is not a poem;
devoid of every fair device,
it is a cry
seeping from the abyss within.
I miss you, and I
will miss you even more.
Days will stretch to weeks, years,
disguised as an hour’s worth of sand
while I stare, transfixed by far-off sunlight
at nothing, ultimately nothing.
This is not a poem,
devoid of any fair device,
it is a cry,
no longer constrained.
Is it wrong to admit
that I am scared?
of today, tomorrow,
and I have
nothing but your hand
and that is already gone afar.
hide in shadows,
melt in sunlight;
keep twisting my neck
north and south
and it will snap.
kisses once blossomed, fields of fractals;
slivers of sense derived from chaos.
Dehydrated, diminished, dust to dust;
pressed forever twixt journal pages.
I am the wind in your hair
and the shield at your back,
the serenity that lingers
in panic’s heart
as damnation comes.
I am your warning,
the harbinger of salvation;
the only strand of hope
that dares glimmer
in the billowing sulfur.
I would hearken to an old west wind
and remind you of the better days,
of challenges faced and overcome —
though this may seem worse,
it is just another step,
just another day to defeat.
Cleave to the knowledge of Dawn.
Though clouds may cover the world,
hope is here.
Reality is harsh, the world is sad,
one can’t help but wonder,
will the world end today?
Turn on the tube, watch the news,
another twenty died in Iraq today.
Walk into school, they wave the wand
gotta make sure I don’t have a gun
to learn about anarchy and chaos first hand;
a girl throws a fit,
a breakup at lunch.
I’ll just click a mouse
and hit a few keys;
reality is soon behind me.
You are the colors laced in lightened trees,
the song that echoes wistfully through time,
that substance in the friendly western breeze
the volta that concludes this lovely rhyme;
my alpha and omega, leaving God
to understand: you are my morning star,
my shining sun, my reason to applaud
the majesty of Earth and Heav’n afar.
You are the heart that fights to keep its pace,
though archangels descend to wind your horn;
your pyre, earthly fire, in its place.
You died, petite and cold, as you were born.
You were my eyes; my last sight and my first,
the wings that brought me through the very worst.
Caught in the tidal struggle between sun and moon, she tapped a scherzo with her toenails while making wishes to Jesus and the Mother Goddess, invoking Allah; praying that somebody would hear the harmonic discord written into the lullaby of her life, and lower the wild diminished and augmented chords into something normal; a minor chord, at least, if life couldn’t be a c-major scale.
because the anarchy in her heart was either murder or suicide; whoever reached the finish line first.
the clouds wrapped her heart, but mother nature sent Sol flying, adjusting the trigonometric ratios to make life, if not perfect, bearable on broken shoulders.