piecesofmoon

[piecesofmoon]

Cold Love

A firefly zooms across the field in the dark night (is it a predator or a prey bearing light?) .

The grass on the field are wearing jewels of rainwater on their blades (the jewels are a burden at times) .

She stands there, barefoot on the damp greenery and lets the breeze kiss her face (The breeze has been graced).

There's a stitch of smile on her lips and her eyes close as she breathes. (Did the smile hurt when it was stiched on her face? Do her breaths crush her ribs?)

The moon is as thin as her smile tonight, trying to glimpse through the cloud (Does the moon envy her or is it proud?)

If she had a taste, it would be that of white wine- bittersweet. (She intoxicates me and I inhale her allure when we meet).

If she had a tune, it would be that of a flute's cry.(Did the hollow flute turn her lungs salty and dry. )

If she had a sound, it would be that of a lover's whisper. (Why is her whisper louder than my thoughts?)

If she had smell, it would be that of a warm home.(Why is she not home, is it cold now?)

If she could be touched, it would be like that of a dandelion. ( Why can i not touch her before she flies?)

She looks down, somewhere beside her feet and her smile tears away. (Why is she looking at...)

She tries her best to stitch her smile back as she gazes at the stubborn stone by her. (The breeze kissed the stone too but why is she looking at...)

She lets a little rain fall from her own eyes instead of the skies. (I want to wipe it away but why is she looking at...)

She whispers something, seems to be my name, to the stone. (Why is she looking at...)

Why is she looking at the stone as if I lie beneath it?(Why is she looking at the grave as if I rest there?)

Her lover shall never lie with the earth, her lover shall fly (Her lover is the wind that kissed her face so why does she cry)

Why is she looking at a stone when I lie in the skies? (I cannot return to embrace her, even if I try)

Why is she sobbing by that useless stone and not looking for the moon ? (Her lover too did not want to embrace death so soon)

~piecesofmoon

[piecesofmoon]

Grief and I

I am grief.

An echo of pessimism.

A reverie worse than a nightmare.

A shadow sheltered behind the one who has mastered the dexterity of smiles.

An invisible being that is discernible only when my body bleeds.

A phantom that fades again when the blood is gone and the scars are buried deep.

I am grief.

A royalty who is self antagonising.

Too royal and noble to step out of my castle of lies and deception.

A weak royal, too fragile to hide once validated by the subject's eye.

A shard of thin glass that cuts the hands of its saviour.

When like all fragile things I break into pieces, my subjects pick a lone shard dismissing the holism.

I am grief.

A parasite that obstinately latches onto life.

A master of thievery that purloins the last fragment of felicity in myself.

A wishful survivor that yearns to see another dawn.

An avaricious being that covets the dominance on life, steering it into the cold arms of death.

An assassin that envenoms its own soul.

I am grief.

A teacher that misguides the learner.

An autodidact that falters at every stride.

An abandoned child at the fair drowning in loneliness , clamouring for safety.

The chief mourner at my own funeral, begging to be given an attempt to not be grief.

A waif, orphaned by my own sanity.

I am grief.

A string such entangled, deathly knotted by thoughts.

A trap embroidered to bring about my demise.

A knot tied to my throat, and wind a traitor to my lungs.

My ears are severed in hopes of tuning out the verity of life.

The knot in my throat encages my prayers for help.

I am grief.

A torn canvas that fails to cradle the art.

A deserted tune which hums itself in the visceral.

A discarded poem that holds no words, the designation forlorn on the page.

A self portrait, crumpled and cast to the cold floor.

A broken pencil, that sullies the case that I should have called home.

I am grief.

An unwelcome company of the epilogue.

The unsightly bloodbath after war.

The last soldier standing before his fallen comrades.

An embodiment of the ruins after chaos.

A silence that follows wails, too gruesome to endure.

I am grief.

A ravenous wolf, strayed from the pack.

A broken vow tied together by mistrust.

The fallen prestige of a noble in the king's court.

The wronged prisoner awaiting his sentence.

The last word's of a departing soul faring you well.

~piecesofmoon

[piecesofmoon]

A raw version of a few lines that i wrote for her.

There are wild flowers growing in my lungs everytime I breathe her air.

And goodness, if she needs me to, I'd rip them out to adorn her hair.

The tears that would flow from my eyes, I'd turn them into a mirror.

I would hold them up for her, be her phantom adorer.