It's been a while; product of reflection

 Embers


Love, Love, Oh love

I am tired of restless

resplendent virtues

of better days;

I long for rain,

Her lurking gray;

sudden burst of emotion

Dripping, whipping, lashing

against delicate window panes,

Rattles like death;

Compliments me.



I do not speak of dying,

I am as immortal

as she.

I breathe and speak

in tiny rhymes and prayers

for daylight to wane,

I wish to recoil; tired

of the dizzy spells

from arched spines;

A memory burns, and burns

Striking matches

across my dry lips.

I shall not untie knots,

nor watch them burn.



So, I wish for rain

to be the healer

I have been looking for.

I am not weak or vague

Rather a lazy fool

Who chooses to ignore

my ability of procession,

Disrespecting the cemented

Mentality of heart ache.

I am not a pretender,

But a careless hypocrite

Who chose to withdraw

from self preservation;

I play with fire.


But for today I ask the rain

To come with night;

deliberate lies,

That embers will cool.

_____________________________________________________________

	Welcomed Muse; Goodbye

 For years
You were my muse- love
Now freed from you
My thoughts no longer
waves crashing against bodies.
My muse may be loneliness.
I’ve yet to decide,
which letters I shall burn
Since I’ve left your wake.


Awake from a dream
where you came to me
and confessed mistakes-
Wishful folly-
but I wouldn’t say a fool.
Rather a struck string
snapped in half and replaced
Echoing emotions
for humanity to interpret.


I, a fragile sinner
Lethargy above repentance,
seek not a god,
for salvation was yesterday’s,
and today has yet to be seen.
You- love
Just a fleck on wrist,
a scar I learned to ignore.
Shall I treat loneliness the same?
Disinfect by detachment,
or shall I nourish it,
like a bird with broken wings?
Is it wise to hold affliction
and romanticized hope?


Letters never revealed
ink smudged
beneath eyelashes.
Strange strangulation
from naive madness,
reserved for love.
But I wouldn’t say fool-
But a casualty of liaisons.
Four harvests of rue,
for me to retire,
welcoming exhaustion.


A moratorium
from heated rue blisters,
but cured sore eyes.
Now two harvests
have come and gone
A disappearance of satisfaction.
My forlorn friend
asking me which letters
shall I burn;
Which ones will remain
what letters
shall I write to a sorry friend.


I did not kneel
nor bring flowers
to your wake.
I did not bring condolences
nor faith.
But only my secret letters
that asked for forgiveness;
letters for a lost muse.
Immortality only beauty
That withstands time,
and perhaps I have
found a new muse.
I have preyed upon it,
with sore eyes and a dull mind,
But now a stronger huntress
I stab at infinite time,
Claiming myself not a victim
Nor a fool-
But a survivor of mortality.


And burn no letters