.../*\...
Imperceptible lies, hanging in the air,
Clouding unsaid truths, in a fog of contentment.
Pretending and tricking yourself, until like you
even the sun is tired.
Tired of pretending that it is still autumn,
There are still days, before the battle starts.
Tired of missing that undertone of understanding.
Tired of waiting for those occasional niceties,
You thought were reserved only for you.
Tired and torn, no hope for remodelling,
The exclusives now a charity, for all except you.
Just a turn of events, till you wake up
From a perfect dream, in a bed of roses
Hiding it's thorns beneath.
Tears don't water the arid heart,
Words don't warm the frozen past,
Present doesn't pause the film of memories.
Overcompensating with fire, refusing to see the light,
Burns the sceptre till abdication is the only resort.
But abdicating from whom,
When there were only castles of sand, built on stones?
Abdicating how, when the mirror reminded
Each day that the crown of gold is undestined for your temple?
That to get the diadem of diamonds,
Renouncing the redundant regalia is the only way.
But who knew, a battle lost drowned
In the ares' crimson wine of crimson autumn showers,
Dead like the still blood on dead hands,
Would be the one to push the crimson crown.
.../*\...
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Cottage Chronicles
PoetryLife's chronicles from love, sorrow, anger, guilt, shame, happiness buried in a poetic cipher. Would you like some words and wine, on wooden floorboards? ©️ Feronia Grey
