The cabin's floorboards creek under the soles of my feet;
They say the sun is nature's heartbeat.
A warm cup of coffee first thing at dawn;
Wondering where all the chaos has gone.
I think true love is an old wives' tale;
A work of fiction; vibrancy gone pale.
The world has completed yet another turn;
Broken bones and lessons learned.
I've taken up knitting, did I tell you that?
I could send you a blanket, or maybe a hat.
My mother isn't doing so well;
But that's not my story to tell.
I wonder if you see my face in the clouds above;
Passed the flight of the season's dove.
Like the Hoover Dam in the 1930s;
I've blocked every memory of you and me.
It was never my intention to lock you out of our house;
But, you simply screamed far too loud.
I found myself thinking what to get you for Christmas last month;
But then I forgot that you were mine once;
But you aren't now.
Somehow, somehow.
I would write you a letter but I'm too busy writing poetry;
Illuminated by glimmers of you and I.
Maybe I'll send you a poem in a blood-sealed envelop;
A reminder that you can and that you will cope;
Cope without me now that I'm oceans apart;
Cope without me now that what we had is not ours.
Hush, now, dry your eyes.
I can calm you with these words of mine.
If you want to love, you must be ready to let it all go;
Alone is enough; I hope you know.
I think true love is an old wives' tale;
A wonderful story, with time, grown stale.
YOU ARE READING
Psychology
Poetry"The rest is silence decorated in confetti". 💀🦋 'Psychology', my fourteenth poetry collection, explores and examines the lives of two fictitious and purposefully stereotypical characters: Jack, the popular sports-star who is his hometown's hero an...
