Today there's a new bumble bee hovering over the speckled daisies. Small wings play soft music to me that sing the same words you did. Those songs still croon in the breeze through the stripey bumble bee fuzz. Tonight there's a new shining star shimmering beside the smiling moon. It glistens brightly against the stillness watching calmly over the world below. I swear that star has a laughing grin from seeing the same pranks you pulled. Tomorrow there'll be something new so familiar that it feels almost borrowed. The gentle reminder that you're near. You reflect in our features in the mirror; In our kindest deeds to our neighbour; In the hearts that'll remember you forever.
Dangled cold toes under hot taps Weary bones that cry to collapse. With night she is blessed with peaceful request that she rest in it's traps. When awoken, as sun shines brightly, the rattled chest clenches tightly. Warmed by a shiver death doth order her: deliver politely.
Soon you will be washed upon the sands of time as a memory left on the tongue tips of the angels left behind. Your physical form will be gradually reborn from the glistening teardrops we’ll cry in chorus as your body is bid to the eternal dust. You’ll slip into the arms of family through the gap of our knowing and feeling; welcomed and soothed by the same loving presence you too once grieved. All the fear you feel in the shallows of this vast ocean will no longer matter as you begin to drift between the folding waves of a final sleep. Goodbyes won’t be whispered into the sea, but the thickening mist will nod, on my behalf, that we’ll meet again someday.
Death's kiss, with all of it's surgical precision, cannot wash away your scent. Sweet burnt marshmallow pooled in the final sands of the hourglass - a tar to keep the coffin sealed. Stale espresso left in the morning dew whispers that it tastes the same - a brew far more bitter than the lonely truth.
Your mind is already closed. Can you still hear me? Are you here?
Walking in the shadows of your footprints Trying to pretend I can see you still Hoping I just might Knowing I won't. Wishing the trail leads somewhere final Fearing there's an end Hiding from the present Abandoning the past.
No one digs in the corners Where the smell festers deepest. Their shovels just clang and clack On the crumbled poured cement That’s broken in the centre Because it lifts easier that grey concrete rubble bow Where the walls join together, Connected to the cold ground: Below the record player, That knew only but one song At entirely the wrong speed: Is where she lays, still waiting, Still wasting, still wailing out. No one will ever find her. The ammonia stings their eyes Should they wander close enough To spot the fresh plaster marks, Or the abandoned teddy Adorned with a bow, alas, No one digs in the corners.
Known not as seed but seedling Etched in photographic memories That sear white hot in absent flesh. The body, too barren to hold onto What little life it longed to give love, Still scarred grievously in self-loathing. Small roots, that wished themselves To dig happiness from within fear, Found the ground soil to be lacking. But the sunlight would soon set, Bringing unfathomable darkness And cold typhoons of destruction. To compensate for the deficiency, The sapling clung to a cracking pot That recklessly scratched at itself. Soon the chippings stacked higher Than the edges had ever reached And the contents were strewn away. Wretched sorrow bled for hours Until the mud was thick as paste, Coating the future in a tacky glaze Of tormented jealousy and longing. No fruits or labors could bare bark Thick enough to be unfeeling. Other trees grew in orchards of poison, Their branches reaching outward, Upward to the glistening sun. How spiritless must this grove be To have only produced heartache In place of a vibrant linden tree.
Written to a picture prompt from the former Facebook group: Stardust Poetry
For war, Word or ward Odor of war Draw forward. Do for war A wood arrow draw Or wood oar Draw forward. Word of war Roar raw ward Offroad or radar Draw forward.
From an Ampersand Poetry & Prompts Anagrammatical Prompt. Check out the Ampersand Site Here
The exclusive rights to grief were taken: Shouted from lips that could never be kind, Painted on a face that had never seen, Twisted in the belief of false guiltlessness, And pointed at the remaining husk of me. The cold iron gates stood heavy in judgement, Separated the self-righteous from the sinner. The one heart that beat love to both sides, A heart once so swollen and overflown That it willed there to be a second pulse, Had burst its banks and bled out silently. Emptiness is the disease that devours joy, Turning time into a weapon of contagion Until we're all wasted and spent in heaps Of decaying flesh and worthless broken bones. A death lived and re-lived in cyclical attack, Feeding on the casualties that too have fallen Into the welcoming arms of temptations Union. When those gates sighed their disapproval How sweet was that call to be swallowed whole By the ravishing teeth of an irreversible vice And no longer be blamed by that judgement.