Envy flowers are rooted
in misery and decay. Hope dying away
A grave, not yet filled
but dug out of the clay and grime.
But I crave anyway.
I crave that feeling
of your words holding mine,
Our thoughts slowly entwining
across the canvas of the sky,
making love to the blushing
fizzy pop opera of life.
And I sing along for
I Know that at any point
my heart could stop
And the light could collapse
As the story just teeters over
the dug out hole we left unfilled.
Rushing thoughts collide in station sentience,
static fizzles crackle across the mist of a faded dream.
A memory lost in a kiss, a whisper left on the bus, arriving
in a new sentence.
And weaving between, broom in hand,
leaves of a story, a ghost amongst ghosts,
rambling the concrete and steel scenery.
Scraping chewing gum from station seats.
Wishes for greenery, to be free to amble in
the fields he wishes to see. To be a leaf on the breeze.
A sent text left on read, panic strewn youth
scratches his head, was it something I said?
A glance from a smile, a whispered word to a friend.
A look again, before face churns red and studies her feet.
The frequent traveller on the night bus to nowhere,
smiles at nobody. And nobody sees,
as they are too busy focusing on the floor.
So many formless poems unwritten, a silent thought
flows in, then whispers off again.
The smitten couple, the girl who wishes
to be home, her kitten in her paws, scared of
the bark of men in the howling town with their
fearsome claws sharpened in the dark of day.
The pregnant pause
Waits holding her belly as her bus arrives late.
In the hushed chaos of the crowed crush, her thoughts
peck in and out, a passenger to joy and fear,
her journey arrives soon, as she watches a previous
life disappear into the rush.
And on the benches the bleary eyed, sits cradling
can of amber, like a baby in his grip, and he surfs the
felling of tree across the concrete sea. A moment of his
own intensity, a moment just a moment of sobriety.
A thought of where he will one day be, a memory, before he
hugs the rest and throws it to the floor.
Litter life fleets in and out of his drowsy eyes.
The ghost sighs as the broom floats by.
The tears. The smiles. A heart that sits
forlorn, unpopulating the lines that form,
on the screen of his mind, picking
the sweetness, creating flowers from
thorns and thistle vines.
The bus sits awaiting, but the poet sits under fluorescent
awning, no rush, for words form only once the stars quit
falling in delicate sprinkles over his eyes.
And as the fading light of station nights sigh,
a song of the lost and alone, the wanderlust
and the found, lives collide in rushing thoughts that bound,
like waves and stone, and the lights blind his eyes.
As the view clears and ghosts vanish from sight,
every story, a part of his life.
Now left in the storybook of history that he writes,
as the broom of time brushes stardust from his feet.
And we can talk all night
in silent words, our thoughts
painted on the walls
of our fear reddened cheeks,
we can let that
fear slowly sleep
as we let
our hearts
beat in conversation
instead.
And in whispers we can let out our secrets.
Those things that are kept only between us
and the moon above, a growing orchard of
fresh fruit, that all tastes of love.
I’ll listen intently.
and I’ll share myself, gently
in a sea of kissed butterflies.
For our words are more than a simple sentence.
We are a presence, and our language speaks in
the moments of silence,
and the longing
looks held in passion.
And we can talk all night,
our words patter
across the windows,
raindrops on glass, fragile
but sturdy enough to form puddles,
to forge rivers through
countrysides so vast,
to form oceans
we can just dive in and bask
in the hidden depths.
And we can whisper
in the ticking of clocks,
the way time stops, when eyes lock,
we can feel sensuous seconds elapse,
and twist the clock back
to a memory of the past,
or skip it forward to a future
where we see ourselves
watching over
new horizons.
As deep as we want to be.
In the silent whispers our seas
will never be shallow,
for our words are not hollow.
And when we let those words fly,
their wings soaring into the starlit night,
we can open our hearts more, pour out
our words to lay out a blanket fort
across the floor, and playfully
we can explore our minds,
we can sit in their silence
as they whisper stories,
put them together
into a piece of poetry
that future generations
will scour for truth, for clues.
For the words that whisper.
I love you.
