What Was

Something close to home.

Ghost seeds sprout,
Bone hands blossom, blue,
But these are remainders,
Reminders of how
our roots shared earth,
And found solace
in a dream,
Scenes from 1920,
And words left as pendants.

How could tears have
found shelter,
Cupped in hands
like marble pillars?
French nights, and fields
I wish we'd have conquered,
My crown broken
and your eyes bright,
Fountains of youth,
Tomes of knowledge
I'd thought too pedantic.

I was light leaves,
And you held such a darkness
inside your damaged self,
Pain I could not abet,
Though I'd given my heart
to oceans inside your eyes,
I found you pouring them out
over blood spilt
ages past,
I held you hard by,
Bussed, mouth to cheek,
And knew it was the end
of a death march I'd hoped
would find layover
in a quiet corner of this
handsome place.

If we do leave together,
Quondam inamorata,
No words could change,
No winds have blown by
in nigh on forever,
Or so it would seem,
I forget the rustle of your
soul, and the frames have
thickened in turn,
Inanimate resistance that
speaks volumes from behind
closed doors,
Repose rescinds my
quixotic penchant,
Drowned and wept,
Forever kept
On my bedside table.

The End

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