the day I welcomed these rosebuds
that had bloomed at my sides
was the day I heard the flowers dying.
She said they were flowers from
the day their love was spoken,
flowers that had fluctuated on
our windowsill for months,
volleying between life and death,
unable to water themselves
while she leaves, licking her lips
and showering in his name.
That morning they wilted,
parched and empty like my insides,
wounded, alone, beautiful and damaged.
Their hollow stems shake and flee
from the garbage disposal like I
shook from his vinegar words.
I speak to them in dew drops
and they beam against the window,
the symbol of another's love,
cradled by my hands.
The hands I wrap around my back,
just to remember what it feels
like to forget myself.
To remember what those undiscovered
curves and valleys have been
to my Magellans, I the only
native still standing in the
middle of the poppy fields
sweeping away the ashes
with gentle, open palms.
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i've read it 3 times already, you get better and better with every poem. i love how i can relate to this, though it probably means something different to you than it does to me. that's what i love so much about poetry.
ReplyDeleteBeautifully written. It is a rare talent to write such evocative poetry.
ReplyDeleteM xx
loislennon.blogspot.com
i agree, fully, with what D says. that's the magical thing about poetry... and you are just so freakin good at it.
ReplyDeleteYou write such beautiful poetry! I just don't have the words to express how great your writing is! :D
ReplyDeletetheemeralddove21.blogspot.co.uk
Reading you is my new favorite thing. :)
ReplyDelete