She was truly dazzling,
It cannot be denied,
But a fiasco nonetheless,
A car crash with mascara,
A shark-tailed siren,
A fiend with perfectly painted talons,
An armada of red flags,
A beautiful disaster,
For you see,
Beauty is not worth in itself,
A person needs more than that,
Her most of all,
What of kindness?
Or wisdom?
Are they not worthy of pedestals?
Does superficiality supersede all?
Looks rot away,
Souls do not,
Beauty is indeed in the eye of the beholder,
But an eye can’t see within.
I once met a man,
Ensconced deep in the park,
Reclined in a flowerbed,
Giving sermons to daffodils and oaks,
Forlorn he was,
And for good cause,
He was a man of a botanical nature,
A gentleman of thistles,
Humble in his manner,
Lilac-maned and garbed in thorns,
Within lay a pure heart,
But without wore a painful raiment,
You see,
He could not embrace his love,
He had never held her hand,
His thistles would only sting her,
Marring her snowy skin,
Drawing blood against his will.
It may be odd to say,
But it’s undeniable,
My soul is for sale to the right patron,
My affection,
My heart,
A paltry yet honest luxury,
Not in financial terms of course,
We’re not talking the flesh market,
But for somebody to proffer sufficient warmth,
Genuine connections,
To be yours and you mine in turn,
To buy me as a partner and not a puppet,
Over the years,
If only to protect my tarnished edges,
After each hurt,
Every time I’ve been left in the cold,
The internal price has inflated,
The shop doors are bolstered,
The years grind by too fast,
If you are to take me for granted,
Or not trade in good faith,
Don’t be shocked or hurt,
When you can no longer afford my soul,
Or are denied service altogether.
I’ve been in these depths,
Breathless,
Drifting in anonymity,
With all the other alien leviathans,
Bereft of the suns touch,
I can’t see down here,
It’s an ethereal vacuum,
Colder than cold,
Blackness on every axis,
And malevolent pressure besides,
I have no bioluminescence of my own,
So instead I call out,
Hoping somebody can rescue me,
Begging for an echo of another’s presence,
Desperation in my sonar,
No pings return,
Not a decibel of humanity,
As ever.
We’re aliens to each other,
All extra-terrestrials,
Visitors to each others worlds,
Having our little landings,
Roswells in one another’s minds,
We’re diverse and outlandish,
Not always speaking the same tongues,
Occasionally having interstellar skirmishes,
But yet we learn to coexist,
Colonising one another,
We stay for some time,
Years or days or lifetimes,
But we always leave each others atmospheres,
Abducting memories,
Leaving crop circles in hearts.
They say not to cry over spilled milk,
Not to let it scar you,
It’s only milk after all,
There is logic to those words,
But consider this,
What if it took heart to pour said milk?
What if you missed drinking milk every day?
What if this milk was everything to you?
And what if it were the last milk you’d drink?
Would you still not cry?
Now hear me dearest reader,
I’ve not been upfront with you,
The poets prerogative,
If it were not yet overt,
I am not speaking about milk.
Winter can’t last forever,
Even the blizzards give way eventually,
Relieved by ice cream and sweat,
And the sun shall dwell for longer,
It’s a time for celebration,
It’s not all good news though,
When the nights grow shorter,
My twilight assemblies are also cut short,
My gambols with Lady Lunar,
Our time more precious than saffron,
The sun doesn’t hold the same power,
Not for me,
The heat is welcome,
But the annulment of my celestial soul mate,
That is an injury too grievous,
Will the moon still remember me?
Or shall summer be the end of our tryst?
Yet another romance incinerated,
Burned away at first light,
To the monody of paradise birds.
I want to forget,
Oh believe me,
I’m trying to forget,
Aching to regurgitate the memories,
Expelling the mucus that they are,
Yet your name sticks in my throat,
Scratching like gravel on my tongue,
Carving X’s and O’s into its flesh,
Your initials like lesions,
It leaves a truly bitter taste,
An odour of scented candles and lipstick,
Memoirs in gustatory fashion,
You’re on the tip of my tongue,
Hanging on doggedly,
Rendering it more coarse by the second,
I can’t spit you out,
Though I want to,
Though the gutter would welcome you.
Like a herd animal,
I partook of the watering hole,
Unaware of the danger,
The lustful threat in the grass,
She was a lioness,
A queen in this arid place,
A regal and beautiful creature,
With hungry eyes laid,
And me hiding amid the herd,
Alas,
My quickened heart,
My lingering gazes,
They gave me away,
And in an instant,
Just a rustle of brush,
A flutter of eyes,
And I was but prey,
An antelope in throes.
The other night,
As the candles died and ale dried,
I looked for you in a crossword,
Hands trembling,
To see you amongst the other sonnets,
The pen traced you,
Around letter and idiom,
Your name hidden in plain sight,
A puzzle arranged perfectly,
Unconsciously,
No clue was necessary,
Save for the monologue of my heart.
WorldofHarley 