Tuesday, 20 November 2012

The heart's blank verse

The city is painted in the hue of your memories
sounds echo still, every note intact.
The only thing alas, not synchronized with time
is my weary, pallid, broken heart.

The autumn of the evening dissolves
into melodies the sleepy bird sings.
The leaves are waiting to turn to amber
from dead tree trunks the winter springs.

I see a young girl puff a cigarette
and I trace my fingers for traces of you.
My eyes turn mellow like shriveling cinders
the smoke doesn't let any dream through.

The sun recedes to the hollow of your palm
it's last ray kisses the shore goodbye.
Sea waves run like madness on a high tide
a lonely moon utters a lonely sigh.

Do footsteps actually sound like cymbals
or mind plays tricks with the trickling rain?
That world is tangentially apart from ours
in which you said, you'll come again.

I can't put together the mosaic of your face
nor recreate the way you call my name.
Just wait and in waiting pet these words
the wildest ones just love can tame.

The city paint peels and memories fade
in the blank vacuum, all echos depart.
The only thing still, not synchronized with time
is my hoping, dreaming, waiting heart.