🥀
A book lay awake on its mahogany bed,
its off-white eyes staring into its
silly fantasies and daydreams.
Its leather binding the colour of a forest;
its hand a thin, silk ribbon of olive;
its face a constellation of my many musings.
There in its eyes, lay a poem,
short yet sweet, of a young writer
jotting down her own imagination.
The brunette's lithe fingers guide the
tip of her ink pen, each curve and
wave a herald of her words unspoken.
The ebony ink tints the pages of
her small diary with words,
then sentences, and stanzas
as she writes more and more.
Her words read a story, long
and lonely, of a young man
in misery, of a life in peril.
The blond man's calloused fingers
shake as his blue pen scratches the paper
soaked in navy ink and nights of agony.
His tears roll down his hollow cheeks,
one after another in a hopeless race,
as he forces back his throaty sobs.
Stains of blue and splotches of sorrow
smear across the page as he picks up pace
from dire desperation.
His breath hitches as the ink runs out,
his tears never-ending as he resists the urge
to crumble up the small slice of his mind.
He throws the messy sheet away,
his heart finally resigning to his fate
that he considered long overdue.
And there, among the stains and tears,
lay a letter of loneliness, a letter of apology,
and a letter of resignation:
'My heart, weary and cold, begs me to
go on;
My mind, weak and tormented, urges
me on;
My soul, battered and in woe, implores for
the end —
And I listen, my wish no longer engulfed
in even an ounce of reluctance.
I wish I could restrain my despair,
I wish I could conceal my desolation,
but it seems that my wavering strength
has finally reached its limit.
Every life that starts will surely end soon,
so take this as me simply hastening my inevitable end. It may seem selfish to you,
but it remains necessary to me.
I would apologize for my action,
but I can only do so for my previous inaction.
Maybe if this happened earlier,
then perhaps you wouldn't be so distressed.
So I apologize for my delayed reaction,
for I never meant to cause you pain.
But every breath I take causes me more agony than you think, and this is my only solution.
So, I apologize, for everything that I must have and may have and could have done.
I hope we meet again, maybe not anytime soon, but I hope we meet. And I hope you recover from anything that hurt you,
for you deserve to heal.'
The letter now lays in the small diary of
the young brunette, her heart breaking
as she swallows the pills in one go,
in hopes to recover like her character wanted.
And finally,
the book lays to rest on its mahogany bed,
its off-white eyes fluttering shut into its countless illusions and nightmares.
Its leather binding the colour of a forest;
its hand a thin, silk ribbon of olive;
its face a testament of my now final word.
🥀
YOU ARE READING
🥀 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐬 🥀
Poetry🥀 A small collection of poetry - mostly poems about love and attraction but a LOT of other themes are to be expected - written by yours truly with random spurts of inspiration 🥀 🥀 All of them follow the free verse device and use a lot of metaphor...
