That Woman Remembered

In this wafer thin world,
My mirror holds together,
Your palpable smile.

I live there somewhere,
Buried; under warm hollow bricks,
Dreaming and dreaming,
Ringlets of flowers, raindrops of gold,
And of you reading a blank page,
Written one hundred ways.

Your name is a shape,
Or a flower or a bird,
Dahlia, Paloma or some rounded word,
You are the poem, I the paper,
You are as ivory and I a leper;
Waiting to talk yet walking away quiet,
Dismal of dark but afraid of light.

You smell of shade,
Along a long lost road,
Dressed like a farm, a sea of azure night,
Auburn hair, and grey eyes bright,
When did we grow, into this hour
Of longing madness,
Coiling itself through our hearts,
Like creepers circling the dead elms?

It’s past midnight, here,
And the waves are turning back,
Humming an echoing ebb, of times
Wept into single drop of chorused sunshine.
Your bare back,
Arched like waterfall,
Rests upon my eyes; eyes
Still yearning, along the crowded shore,
One amongst many like many amidst more.
All strangers to me as I am to you,
In this tangible tremor of life.

Random musings; this pillow feels soft,
Feathers abound, thoughts aloft.

There was an abandoned bench,
In a corner of December,
Where every story started,
Afore her departure,
Now nothing remains, there, here and everywhere,
Nothing but holes,
Inch deep, muddy and wriggling with worms.

Fare-thee-well.

Author: TheHumanAnvil

I find poetry as a gentle reminder, a medium to relay and dwell upon all things considerate people find inconsiderate. Poetry as an art is akin to a lamp or a magnifying glass. It trails volumes of meaning behind obscure, vague words. I have been writing for a time now, and intend to do so for the time to come. And hopefully, hopefully, hope that one day, someday, a person stumbling across this veil of words, find it alluring enough to shift aside the curtain and peer, into the eyes of the naked truth which sways with the wind of reason. If you have any thoughts, it would be my pleasure to know them, if you don't then it would be a pleasure to not. Be my guest. This feast of words is for you.

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