Cobblestones

 

I know this road,

I’ve walked

its cobbled stones

many times, I’ve got the grooves

imprinted into the soles of my shoes.

The distance between me and you.

The silence, the side eyed glance.

The way you glaze over

when I speak,

and the way

I die a little inside

every time.

 

So, all I can do is take

the next turning,

walk into a different

morning.

And whilst I’ll mourn

the loss of another layer

of feeling, it's better that

than grieving a lost year

as we try to cling on

to something

long gone.

 

You smiled today,

but it was not a smile

of love that you shared

with me, it was a smile of pity.

One that said lets

pull the escape chute

and get out whilst we can.

 

And I know this road well.

Its stones burn

like the fires of hell,

and whilst I walk it,

my heart feels heavy as well,

but it is sometimes

kindest to say farewell

before the sound

of the death knell

drowns the words

that we can never tell.

Paper flowers & origami swans

  

Paper flowers

sit beside origami swans

and each one is a poem,

a moment of longing,

or a song sent

across the yearning sea.

A sonnet composed

to say how you feel,

a dream that feels so real

and waking only makes

it grow stronger. A tear for a stranger,

a hurtful moment seen

in a newspaper,

Folded into a beautiful flower,

to spread the love wider.

 

Each swan is a story,

feet flailing

under the surface

to gain traction,

but the fluid motion

of the water

is only a distraction

from the pulse

that beats in each piece

of art set on fire

in the summer sky.

 

The flower and the swans,

all old songs

and memories torn

from old dreams.

Random snippets of dialogue

that repeat in circles through the head.

A mind wandering

into an empty world ahead.

A collection of photographs

laid out on a bed,

all portraying love

that was set free

to live across the seas.

All illustrating parts of you

and parts of me

in subliminal poetry.

 

The swan dipped in ink.

Depicting something bleak

sitting on the horizon.

Something of which

we don’t want to speak.

The passing time crashes its waves

against the rocks,

wearing them into dust.

And the black swan sits

laughing at us.

Lost scarf on a station seat

 

A soft silk scarf 

adorned with flowers

sat on the steel seat beside.

I wonder where did your story start,

and where will it lead?

 

Was it a lost love heart

softly sitting in space,

whilst you were gazing

lonely at a star

in the speckled night,

longing for the distance

to become just

a speck of dust in a sandstorm,

The distance from your

eye to your thumb,

as you looked up and on,

at the memory

that star had become.

 

I look to the right

The night sits 

just out of my view,

but I’m too busy

wondering about you...

 

Were you waiting

for a special moment?

A memory

ready to be written,

a smitten moment of love

as you listen to the

evening song of the city hum.

And when it didn’t happen

did you leave the scarf

like a glass slipper,

for him to find you

wherever you are?

Or did you depart on your journey,

leaving behind a piece of your heart,

so that in time it could be

refilled with hope

from a different star?