Sunday, May 18, 2014

a song of despair

At this hour, the rain hums grief; the lament of her hour of departure.
This beating cage aches, at her every gaze and the words her lips did not let slip.

In this hour, the silence lingers like how once my lips are closed underneath her fingers.
Time passes under dilapidating skies, like how her scent clung to my nostrils as she pass.

I would walk until dawn, devoid of sleep and in the deepest chasm, the void of yawn.
She once held on so dear, with her tear and her tear to see me in delirium; in clear.

I tread in slow her empty landscape, in a shallow grave on desolate plains bereft of escape.
To find is so short, to seek is forever as to how my longing is the search of my heart’s consort.

Turbulent was my climb, how the wind swallowed and rung the mind’s chime from time to time.
The sway although as gentle, like the mountains when it crumbles, in sentiments so subtle.

At this hour, I am under her spell; nothing would I remember, not even dreams only her, solely her.
Before day breaks, in her arms she would take, knowing my terror in mourning, unrelenting stake.

In this hour, I am in ruins, and her silent singing soothing hymns into ear whispers, into wind.
Holding countless tenderness, in her arms, her touch, her words, an immense dwell of tender wilderness.

This room haunts empty, there are ghosts in the walls, they remind me I would fall and fall in weary.
In many nights, in hours and hours of plight in wait on the weight of; to be painted by morning light.

The ampersand curve of her lips, I would trace with my eyes deathlessly until the picture turns in keep.
The meek of her voice I would hear even in the death of space, until spatial hunger brings me grace.

In solitary recluse, I open and read the books that she once touched, to feel if her touch endured.
Before dawn breaks, I sleep where her head once slept, until I am tangled in her hair again unkempt.

Brief was the adventure; the encounter of many kinds but desire stayed under the skin and grey contour.
To what is left, is the graveyard of kisses and the tomb that it erected under the guise of defeated ardor.

Time is scarce, but not the scarred fingers, the bitten lips, the kissed limbs, the ravelling of bodies.
She sung in bloom, the deranged marriage of hope and coma; the only heat that I know of.

That is her the death of me, the depth of me.

As I still muse that she is summer, undying.


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