Another blossom for your dreams, dear,
so flowers your garden of thoughts,
a beautiful array of cosmos, tulips, and carnations,
of candied fancies, sweet to the taste.
Those scents so enticing and crowned with drops of dew,
bleeding hearts and roses to match your ruffled dress.
Carve through fields of color, become lost,
like Mary Celeste.
Become empty.
If we come aboard, sing as you once did,
upon the prow a melody like the sirens call,
one you'd learned from others
as you jump roped by yourself,
watching from afar as your toy became your noose.
See, look, a ladder I've built for you,
so please, don't despair. I beseech you, dear,
join me, don't be alone any longer, let me near;
cease to let the rouge of your veins
be the one to stain your dress.
It was best white, though it'll never be anything but rust.
Sharpened metal is not a replacement for lead,
and your wrist not paper, though both are sacrifices
for words of passion on slivers of past lives.
Treat them wisely, write them with care,
not for yourself but for me and I adore parchment.
Yes, let the gentle rolling and rhythmic creaking ease you
as you wade towards blessed sleep, this time for eternity.
I'd seen you, the one you never knew,
and love I'd never known of, until I had so seen-
rubicund cheeks, brushed lightly by astilbe.
Your rowan eyes, though you could not meet me, were bright.
And I danced for thought of you, because you were beautiful.
I was to wait for you, until the days of lily dresses had faded out to yellow. Yet, still more soon, civilizations come,
and with it, metal and concrete. I wished you'd loved me more.
I'm sorry. Thank you. I love you.
Hello.
YOU ARE READING
The Mourning Times
RandomThis is a collection of short stories, poetry, and sayings that are particularly meaningless unless you read them. So please do
