A Prayer for Lost Loves

For The Sunday Muse prompt #114:

***
May the pains
of today’s desires
lose themselves in
the fragrance of
a love reborn,
the pained passion of
unrequited love find itself
returned in time
like a blossom that speaks,
a sacred whisper to the soul
colouring everything in
the light of a rose,
beautiful in its bleeding
yet whole, because the Lover
and the Loved like thorn and rose
find themselves entwined,
from past pain and tortured paths,
delirious joy arising.

Summertime, for G

For The Sunday Muse prompt #113:
***
The light in her eyes
mirrors the mirth,
in the wry smile
that still, some days,
wraps itself
around her lips,
a bird, free,
born of the wild
borne by the wind.

The heavy scent of summer,
of flowers blooming and
of squirrels flitting
between the trees,
reaches down into
the depth of the memories
she bears within, the
delight of summers past
simmering, then bubbling
to the fore though
her fingers can no longer
coax life from the dry earth
or press pleasure
into a cone.

Ignition…


For the Sunday Muse prompt # 112:
***
Sometimes I carry
the weight of the world
upon my head, its heft
held between the twin peaks
of forgotten and accepted things,
a history curated not
by those who waver
at the threat of war
but those who embrace
its vagaries, who daily
pour out a libation
to destruction.

What seems like
the stillness of a boat
in quiet waters only hides
the furious paddling
of a mind being torn apart
as it wrestles with the tension
between conforming and desire.

This is how one keeps
dismay at bay, until
someday in a moment,
unexpected in its coming
and ferocity, it ignites.

Half Remembered

For The Sunday Muse prompt #111:

***
what we remember
of the past are the things
the mind allows, the
harshness of being hacked
into a thousand tiny pieces
assuaged by the desire
to forget, to not let
the horror of the past
hold the present hostage,
to find a path that winds
through the remains
of pillage to
a coherent whole.

what we learn
in the end is that
skirting the hole where
our kin should be is akin
to yielding to the
pressure of a hand pressed
against our throat, to feed
the pleasure of the ghouls
hovering over our history.

to begin afresh
we must yield to the call
of the things we half-remember
and wander into light.