Tag Archives: solitude

Gratitude: Part 25

Yesterday I was grateful for:

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Sweet Sentiments

This is every sweet sentiment swallowed when I bite my tongue,
This is every strand of hair twirled between my finger and thumb,
This is the breaths held when you walk by, stuck in my lungs,
This is revelling still in your sighs and the bliss of its limelight and the dulcet tones after the song’s sung.

This is your smile but the poem doesn’t do it justice,
These are your eyes that tell me simply just this,
This is love that hits harder than any habit,
Which keeps me rolling yet in this as though I were rabid, how bad I’d love still to have it.

This is solitude pining again for purchase,
This is the thing in the world that makes all the trials and tribulations worth it,
This is even’song aching for the dawn,
When free at last, to take to task the fact that yet you’re gone.

A Poorer Apology

Subtly the season is inspiring these sudden swings in salutations,
that once evoked affinity but now speaks of detachment;
ratchet in the works that once warbled aspirations,
instead proclaims at perceived deviations and dastardly dashes natural nearness for fears:

Broached issues poached in placating an ego,
hurt before the breach that taught how terribly tender intimations can wreck havoc on a heart,
and how hollowness can herald heartache hindering healing.

Songs sung spurt sparsely in the recollections of a friend,
if one didn’t destroy that in defense of a painful pulse,
recalling back when the winter’s grey seemed to dissipate in the stark light that hung at the horizon,
barely rising between the sighs in the solitude,
banter that bared souls and shoulders and quenched the smoldering silence when eyes met and it was all they needed to tell each other everything.

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From Prosperous Dreams

Prosperous dreams, like Prospero’s schemes off Antonio gleaned;
obvious breadth in the deep breaths drawn before┬ásinking beneath the surface of a pool cooling in the summer’s crest;
chest out-turned, pounding with each step, subtle in its drama that sets aflutter the heart behind her breast;
to the death, two duelers fighting over faintly feelings,
conversing with each other in the dalliance of awkward dealings.

Sealed in solitude, sly stubborn mule,
styled in revile but gauged in the rank and file piled in a perilous upbringing,
fortunate in freedom, unfathomable in flattery,
stocked in the internal and the question, “what is wrong with me?”

“What hath thou brought for me?” Asks a deity that craves attention,
which is nothing more than wisps of smoke upon a moment’s odd reflection;
an a suspect’s introspection at the unction occultly occupying
the lines that she had once denied but prized on a cloudy night’s convention.