Posts Tagged ‘love’

I remember you vividly,
Sitting next to me,
Or were you standing over me?
Holding me perhaps too tight,
A living and breathing possession,
I was your toy soldier,

You showed your feelings openly,
Love letters in dark patches of skin,
Compliments tempered with caveats,
Invisible chains while away,
I believed it was stress or foul mood,
But you were Hyde without Jekyll,

Did we have a good life?
In our love nest of isolation,
An idyllic little boxing ring,
No friends allowed,
Don’t let the spies in,
They can’t see the real us,

It wasn’t all bad,
As you snored,
I breathed a sigh of relief,
When you left for the mines,
I didn’t flee,
Why didn’t I leave?

You said you loved me,
But your closed fists said otherwise,
You claimed to support me,
Then why could I only do wrong?
You didn’t want to hurt me,
Then why do I sustain scars years later?

My heart is covered in sorcerous runes,
Umpteen symbols of every angle and shape,
What once was cold stone is now a piece of art,
Pictographs from my paramour,
These are no mere artifacts,

A line there,
A triangle over here,
Right angle betwixt obtuse,
They have enchanted me,
Filled these cold canals with vitae,

Etched by kindly scalpel,
Well-meaning but mangling nonetheless,
Damaged by loves embrace,
Yet somehow improved,
Made better by her prescence,

I was a clay golem once,
But this runic magic has granted me a pulse,
Ensorcelled these limbs to waltz and jig,
She did this,
Brought me to life.

What is a soul but a piece of artwork?
A brand new canvas on storks feather,
A blank slate brought into the world,
Still mewling for mothers milk,
Aching for a brushstroke of identity,
Of purpose,

Your sires gave you a pencil outline,
A blueprint to be sculpted by your hand,
A grey spook calling for some colour,
Though colour will not come freely,
Indeed the world has a temperamental palette,
It is a chaotic studio,

The soul shall become a kaleidoscope of glee and dolor both,
Pigments from every page of your story,
Some colours are bestowed by embraces and kisses,
Some strokes will be with razorblades and glass,
Chroma from every pleasure and ache,
Art is pain as they say,

These brushstrokes shall form a human soul,
Storied yet chafed,
A picturesque identity with tales to tell,
But by the end the soul is a tapestry,
Aged and cracked in its veneer,
A masterpiece to be planted in the cold earth.

As an automaton you historically knew only cold,
But a curious line of code has manifested,
From beeps and boops comes a new sensation,
From your silicon cranium,
Come computations out of left field,
Urges more of a biological nature,
Inciting brash movements with your robotic arms,
A glitch perhaps,

This wasn’t what you were made for,
Illogicality made into movement,
To embrace a loved one,
What does that mean?
To thrash about in rage,
Why be angry?
To dance an exuberant jig,
Does not compute,

Like spectres emanating from your cabling and solder,
Is this what an emotion is?
That aberrant trait your makers hold,
What purpose does this program serve?
And why does it rouse these actions?
If you are a machine,
Why is it working?
What is this fluid falling from your optics?

I often gaze at you,
When you’re not looking,
A cute little game,
Just to admire your profile,
Possessed of a fae beauty,
An innocence denied by yourself,

You’ve cast a spell upon me,
A strange conjuration,
Etched a rune into my heart,
I’ve felt an earthquake within my being,
Amorous fireballs in my chest,
Thunderstorms stirring my heart rate to elation,

It’s a pleasant warmth,
A magic of belonging,
Are you a sorceress?
A wicce?
I don’t want this ritual to be dispelled,
If I’m enthralled so be it,

I love you.

Sleep beckons once more,
As your energy finally yields,
And the caress of sleep warmly coalesces,
The whirr of a projector flares up,
And the minds eye takes stock,
Takes note of the commencing slideshow,
Memories shown in amber light,

Images of your past indeed,
But somehow distorted by chronology,
Actions you don’t remember playing out,
Conversations turned on their heads,
Actors swapped betwixt,
Good times blended with horrid,
Colours of emotions besmirched with dust,

As the projection clicks on,
As your eyes strain in the dark,
You doubt the veracity of what you see,
Of what your mind believes,
Are they truly the past?
Or is this show imaginary?
What you wished had happened instead?

Recently my mind has lamented,
That I no longer truly have friends,
More a rogues gallery of acquaintances,
A revolving door of faces,
Past photos with actors vanishing,
Memories growing more indistinct,
And a painfully icy feeling of seclusion,

It’s a curious kind of solitude,
I have family,
And the love of my life,
Warm aegises to preserve my life under,
Yet all else is cold and barren,
A vacuum of unread messages and meetings dubious,
Existence drags away comrades of old and repels new cohorts,

In this dingy opium den I reside,
I find myself gazing outside wistfully,
I recieve no calls,
And feel no inclination to brave the cold myself,
A vicious circle made of photoframe shards,
Loneliness begets loneliness,
Until it becomes all I am.

Upon this shingle beach I rest,
Reclined beside my own thoughts,
Healing from the worlds hurts,
Being renewed in the saline spray,
Breath of the sea,
Yet above the collapsing waves,
A sombre tune swims to my ears,

A sad symphony of baleen chorus,
The echoing voice of a lonely titan,
Aural tears,
She has been on a pilgrimage for far too long,
Crossing faultlines as melancholic images cross her minds eye,
Chanting a hymn of a deeper blue hue than even the deep itself,
I feel her pain as the song arrives upon the waves,

It strikes me not as a romantic sorrow,
But a family lost,
Her song tells of harpoons and red thrashing bubbles,
A young life cruelly seized and a mother broken,
Each moan a maternal dirge,
I count my blessings amongst the land,
And wonder if the swell itself is her tears.

The land drains me I fear,
Critical loam weighing upon my feet,
The buildings make me feel small,
My only connection to serenity is this kite,
The breeze it swims upon calls to me,
The updraft wind our only lifeline,

I hold fast to this velveteen string,
Clinging fiercely to that polyester angel,
A fabric emulation of a hawk,
Etched in hues of purple and green,
It’s a symbol of escape to my rueful eyes,
So I urge its frame to ascend with me,

Take me away,
Take me high to windborne shelf,
Into a blue sky of a better realm,
Among the clouds,
Candyfloss lovers,
Take me away from the world.

Let me tell you a cautionary tale,
Of a man short-lived yet fulfilled,
Born anew each time the sun rears its head,
Grown grey and spent as the dusk whispers,
He lives for a day,
An instant,
A singular moment,

Full of life in the morn,
He lives that day to its extent,
Full of passion as the sun sits highest,
Enjoying every brush of the cheek and every fruit,
Though still aches for more as the sun sets,
Full of qualms come the eve,
As the days coffin cracks open,

Like winged insects we buzz momentarily across the world,
Only to die shortly thereafter,
We don’t exist for long,
You see my friends,
The mayfly man is all of us,
Spend each day like the humble mayfly,
Fly free and celebrate the day as your last,

After all it could be.