Love can be unconditional, pure, lustful, unrequited,, uninhibited, immoral, religious, familial, and lost. These are two poems I wrote about the latter.
Melancholy takes her cue.
Tantalizing and haunting melodies fill the air.
Sitting transfixed lost in echoes of the past-
Nostalgia is lost in a reminiscent trance.
Clinging to ephemeral dreams
Melancholy’s carnival of variegated colors
Illuminates the stage in her mind
Whilst churning away through the scenery of her mind.
Revelations of the soul’s misdirection
Unveil a plot left untold.
Remorse…regrets…the awful longing that always comes-
With bittersweet remembrances of
Myths of love promised forever.
The mist-bound dreamer chained to chords of reasons
Recalls an ancient season.
The lights go up the curtain falls
Leaving the audience- to wonder and
Longing for another chance to
Make Love to a one true romance.
Remember at the station, waiting
on the train, on that sultry summer day?
We stood lost in an embrace, breathing in
each other that way. that awful, terrible,
perfect mad and delicious way that took us
to the shrouded place.
Remember at the station that day, waiting
on the train, as the wind hummed a lovers tune?
She sang of sublime ends, from supple beginnings.
the alluring medley of serenity in a war of rhyme
on the sharp bloody edge of Neverland and Narnia,
the peaceful enchanting interlude of rage & myth.
Remember at the station, that day, as
the train churned closer and we cussed goodbye?
His steam a prelude to our eternal kiss, the sun
soaked, never ending fuel of light, of love, of
heat. Basking and bathing, merged and emerged and submerged, Dancing and swaying in time
with golden chariot and the huntress.
Remember at the station that day, as
the train tugged away, on a endless track?
We gazed as it came — as it came — as it went
through the crossroads. We did not know,
our own separate, distant destinations,. Our own
rail-less wild paths cut into unimagined mountainsides
You to the west, me to the east.
Remember the station that day as
the train, conducted our last kiss?
That gaping wound where our lips met. Where
we learned cruel fate is hot love and all love is
the calamity of un-armored battle. We all go under
wrong or right. Each of us blankets miles and the ground
is nothing but a shifting litter with irascible iridescent hope and hurt-dulled dreams, unfulfilled plans and schemes.
Remember the station that day, waiting
in twilight until we forgot and travelled on, and on
alone, with only prayers of new Twilight to set
in stony slumber with hard solace of old loves loss
then found again.