There was a golden moment, when we knew how to respect
the passion between us, before the indigo storm
swept past us and infiltrated her moisture
in every part of our union.
A severed wound does not always heal, the scar tissue
a marker for the forlorn and abandoned,
like a hen who forsakes freshly laid eggs
for some poacher to devour.
One minute you were drawing circles in the clouds
painting prisms with your delectable charm
as I watched magic forge from the hands
of an artist who spins impressions
from slippery stars:
beholden, cherished, consecrated.
But the torrid rains plunged, and capricious anger
turned her fickle cheek and mocked the path
we followed, as if to say:
“you’ve lost your designation, like a pirate
seizing a ship’s sail, and soaring
to lands unknown.”
Your were crazy, fallacious accusations
inhabiting your mind,
paranoia cluttering acumen,
like a melon left to spoil
in the melting sunlight.
My love was a casualty of the war
you succeeded to launch, choosing to drift
from you and begin anew with adorned angel wings
that lifted me to freedom from persecution,
providing me a second chance
while I watch our faded love dissolve
into a denigrated illusion
unsure if there ever was a time to rejoice.
I light candles one by one, make a wish, and douse
them out, like blowing bubbles into the wind
as they blanch and disintegrate,
like the remnants of our liaison,
now just an apparition that haunts,
taunts and inhabits musky dreams
which bludgeon what was, stomach
what is, and slowly expires:
time to take quill to paper
while drawing my circles in the clouds.
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