Anna walks towards the path. Just before the path stands a man rubbing a leaf.
Perplexed she asks, “What are you doing?”
Silence follows. She repeats the words.
He looks, “I’m just collecting ideas.”
“Ideas for what?”
“I write poetry…”
“You’re a #Poet! Let’s talk more.”
She sits by the water.
The river moves by, as fish take a peek every now and then.
“Do they know my broken heart?” she wonders, as nature’s carpet touches her feet.
A clumsy fish wiggles toward her then retreats.
A teardrop falls into the river.
The fish swims away.
under the soil.
you lay under the soil surrounded by the sounds of insects moving and water soaking into the soil.
under the soil, there is a wooden box.
you lay in the wooden box with roses that once blossomed and bloomed, yet now lay in petrified pieces upon your chest.
under the soil alone
you remain perfect in your chest of what once bloomed so beautiful and bright.
under the soil your blossom and bone.
you remain silent and still as the stars and the moon sing their song to you.
You are far from me
Yet you are so close to me
Your hand touches me
Yet you are continents away
I saw you that day we connected
It was being inside your head
Your alarm was mine
Yet you embraced our special gift
I know your thoughts and you mine
It was the fates playing
You’re with me until the fates know
Yet I love you being here
I touch you with lips to your heart
It turned our spirits alight
You showed me the red flower
Yet you never said a word
I vowed to meet you in a week
It was the happiest words
You vowed to meet me in a week
Your happiness ripples
I cannot speak
It is done
The burning embers of our love blow through the wind to burn our skin.
From where we came only dragons know, yet it was a place of passionate fire.
We had it all until you tore a hole through my heart and I smashed our love to shards.
Now, we stand in the silent darkness waiting for the earthquake to crush what is left of our love and return it all to the dirt.
My chest aches and yours is broken;
still, I wish we hadn’t fucked it all into pieces.
Playing sad tears from the bow of horse hair you wield so well. Strings hear the echoes of your many sorrows, as they become vibrations and sounds, to ripple along your ivory skin. Memories of your lovers flow into the wood to haunt the many players of your violin.
In the beginning, the world spun out of control. A course through hell would see you stand at 20 on the precipice of destiny. The choice you made was harder still, but the journey would be won. As 40 creeps closer, you look to the future with bright eyes and wise lips.