Monday, May 30, 2011

Its Why

Its like a knob that won’t turn. Its a match that won’t
burn. Its the tune you can’t unlearn. Its the tear weld
and held that will not cry. Its the sad of our last goodbye.
Its the who of our why. Its this breath I am taking. Its this
poem I am making. Its this hurts aching.

It is about you I am speaking. Its the missing you part
we are now reading. Written here by my hearts pleading.
Told to it by my needing. Sorrow becomes our new
greeting, keeping us from meeting. Still dreams have
us achieving. Hope tricks me with believing. Your
memory’s lure deceiving. Me regretting leaving.

Days are longest when heights of thoughts fail to peak
and we fall around me. Turning to glances of romance,
my dreams perpetuate longed for beliefs. Stolen by me.
Now replaced with grief, aiding the sufferance of this
foolish thief, who seeks forgiveness and begs relief.

Half myself a part of pleasure, arrested in this gloomy
measure. The culprit of my displeasure. He writes this
burying my hearts treasure. Casting affections aside
like worn out collections. Sending togetherness off in
two different directions. Thus his lovelornness, keeping
me bereft. Loneliness undergoes corrections caused by
self inflictions from this shallow lovers depth.

Rounds of travels repeated, and like a race want only their
finish. They begin and end with the sounded gavels lay.
To my hearts dismay sentencing me everyday. Ordered
to wander aimlessly and feel then need. There to remain
empty aloof an morose. Silhouetted as if a ghost.
Cast as a lonely soul that’s unable to be made whole.

Maddened passions I hide. This episode laid aside.
Turning to flee, I fall over the edge of reason tumbling
down into me. Inward a storm of clouded desire builds
around the emptiness. From the sorrowed joy of solitude,
I reach the point leading to the sole answer for this romancer:
To begin again. Stopping the nightmare of loves, perpetual
end.

The prelude to this servitude in attitude lessens with
the lasting loss of you. Made innocent by our doing.
Made young when new. Made wrong when through.
Captured as a melody that’s played as a hurt. The beats
to each measure pulse in me as I place this here to us.

Righting our past trials. Its unlike an end, but more a path
that’s ahead of me, and on it I can see these words. As I
go they are left behind to soothe other fallen travelers, by
punishing the meek and trying the weak and giving voice
to those too ill with, “its” innocence of conscience to speak.

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