The sun was beginning to set a golden colour across the sky.
And yet,
there he still sits -
Writing feverishly, hunched viciously, focused intently
on a page filled with his own words.
His mind is unmovable,
if I were made of the strongest stone I could not move it.
The first time I set eyes on him in that ballroom
well, his mind is what caught me,
drew me near like a moth to a burning flame.
But all he is interested in is his legacy,
his honor and his name,
not the world we have built together;
there is not enough time for these worlds to collide.
Those words he used so delicately,
building dreams to fill my world, which could, in any split second, turn as destructive as a
Nightmare.
He sits, he writes, he speaks.
He is only writing at his desk and yet,
I feel the oceans stretch out between us
and I teeter on the edge of a cliff
I wasn't aware existed.
So a holiday beckons,
I beg him to take a break,
but I sail alone,
and he makes a permanent break instead.
A Mrs. Mariah Reynolds kind of break.
Was I not enough?
Was I not good?
You took pen to paper,
told the world your sins before telling me.
And I guess that pen is mightier than the sword
because I feel it twist and turn in my gut.
Well, I'll let your words fall and I'll grow tall -
once amongst the clouds I won't be able to see what lies grey beneath me.
I'll take your words an erase any memory of us.
I'll sew together lips that will hold secrets they'll never know.
And yet,
still that image,
although a little worn and faded,
I see.
That golden light shines over you,
at a desk,
words everywhere,
and I think,
maybe it's time I did the same.
YOU ARE READING
Brecon's Poetry Book...
PoesíaHere you will find my musings in poetry form and you'll also find me in these poems; recklessly vulnerable.
