The journal laid lifeless opposite me, starved of its owner's touch
But bleeding ink from the stab of another scripture's trudge
All looked like a reflection of me; a wound that wouldn't budge
Bleeding from my own writing of ink, into an unknown slutch
While laying against the wall like a survivor, the dagger of a pen in my dying clutch
All because the lines in the end of the sacred book finally said,
"I'm never going to love again when its ending always has to be an end,"
Hasty fingers sprinting across the last page, meaning to tear it,
Just to prove my sick point to my imaginary self that that wasn't always the case
That love had to be more than its outcome and rather a treasured quest
Laid dead like a flicked away hourglass, the paralyzed moments
I couldn't let time reign us again, if deterioration had to come with patience
So I finally picked myself off, to remake my graving an engravement,
Rushing and shrugging my coat on, with her diary in my pocket
I found myself at the local park to accidentally cross paths with her again
Sitting under the golden hour, the streaks of her blondes outing the light
White lilies adorning her hair, her distant gaze darker than a midnight
A book perched against her skin, willing to be the destination of her sight
As if in a mere competition, on who was to claim the subtle invite
Taking it as my final cue, I tread towards her, just to have an excerpt to finally write.
YOU ARE READING
TogetHER On Pages Of HIStory
PoésieA verse novel that weaves through the woes and wonders of life and experiences - metaphoric to love. It redefines finality to the point that it becomes more like a beginning to second chances. Chase is determined to get her, despite knowing the imp...
