while heading home from work today,
i heard a story told by the moon–
he whispered to the clouds:
she will be here,
she will be there,
but i won't be here
once she gets there.
and it's such a sad little tune,
we hear it every morning.
lovers torn by the sky,
lovers living in the heavens,
lovers made from cosmos
and stardust–
and he whispered to the fog:
she isn't coming today.
i'm leaving this place–
empty-handed,
once
again.
and it's such a beautiful mess
to see the moon beam
begging for the sun light
as if our wounds
could cover up
the scars that spreads
through the clouds
as it hits your cheeks
and you could smell
the dew that lingers
within the rain
of early spring
and you can smell
the roses,
the roses that withered,
the roses that fell,
the roses that pricked–
and he whispered to the point,
to the earliest hour of morning:
there she is.
there she was.
there she will always be.
and here i go,
leaving once again.
coward.
and the pulling,
the moving,
the yearning,
the leeching.
it breaks before 6 am.
6 am sunrise
kissing the birds:
he was here,
wasn't he?
blushing birds:
yes. yes, he was.
just try again tomorrow.
there's always two sides
to heartache, that,
i know, i promise.
YOU ARE READING
Monsters Are Human
PoetryShe was poetry in a world still learning the alphabet. [ Just poems I found on Tumblr.] [ I do not own any of these!! ] [ The first few are horse poems. But it gets better. ] #230 in Poetry - 1 June 2016
