Not Forgotten, Not Yet

Winds whisper half-forgotten
songs as I imagine, in
another tongue from minds long ago.

While the melody most sweet,
the lyrics point to bitter times
which echo through and only
around my core.

What is this empty pain
without a name which
I continue to feel?

These footsteps from
another day follow me
still.

And yet I cannot not
name the echoing pain
after all this time, through
countless years.

The skies a most grey,
noteworthy to none except to those
who have never lived three days
without rain.

Grasses stir.
The people move.
And yet I stay. Carried only
by the wind, my mind overshadows
the sun too and leaves little
room for its rays.

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20 June

Farewell to love once pure,
hello to an edge which
slices the heart, forcing its innards to stale
in the rain, swallowing the wind and
paling in the night. Forgotten.
Ruined.

Visions of you failing,
of crumbling at the knees
from poison fed by delusional
dreams pierce my mind at lightning’s pace.
No, this is not how love ought
to be. The thought of you running
from me into the arms of
petty jealousy.

You deserve better than me.
You need perfection to mold with yours
not this weak excuse of something
akin to innocence once pure.

But wait, before you part and
before I falter, I still
crave for you to
part with your current circumstances
and be the best that I see you to be.

Limited Nights

I keep having dreams about the people I used to meet.
Of the people I loved and the hopes we dreamed.
Never falling in love easily has been a trait of mine,
but last year was a time when it seemed that
everyone I met impaled my mind and twisted a form
upon my fate.

I think I only dream when I’m in love,
and these past few nights, the dreams
have come and stayed, imprinting their
impressions of something once great.

But how those days ended so swift,
and the longing of home to end quick.

By No Aid of Time

What’s in your name?
And how is it made?
Could it be replicated, or is it something
extraordinary, or something else, something yet of designation?

I’m trying to decide what makes it
special, a permanent stain impossible to erase

Beneath the lids of eyes, spelling out
the ever-expanding skies, the lights of stars
ingrained within the mind and replicates something as
mundane as your name.

Impossible ought it be,
pathetic even – yet it remains.

Fearful am I to keep this way,
unsure of how it plays into the folds of creation
of Present Yet to Be.

And yet I sit, stalled whenever A stranger
may share a character stroke same as yours,
caught spying on something as external as a phrase
others gave to command your state.

It’s preposterous. It’s typical.
A fault of mine enlarged by the aid of time
and a work less heart. But it’s mine to bear,
a wound still in disrepair.