Water nymph forming
out of your tears,
some clung to your eyes,
like making the summer of love
taste like the forgetful drought covering
half of the earth's land.
Your aubades and prose is the exit i can't simply leave,
like a cloak of bruised emotions you
still wear just for its lachrymose warmth.
Your sandpaper skin, sharp
as the moon's edge, touching the
flowing river of words that cuts
my flesh in a graceful way
that me, myself can't even hear
my own screams of pain,
i would wait till'
the mark bled out,
my blood touching the
gravel grave of
blank spaces, and silent monologues,
speaking the unknown language of the
divine speechless, returning to the
goodness of autumn foliage,
blessing me with rusted, dry leaves,
a garland of confetti
yet after months of staying in sweaters,
and me still feeling the essence of spring
in your autumn quill spilling out
rumors that the spilled
sun hasn't loved you back,
winter cradles the dry land,
as if earth turned her queen
of the sacred icy days.
You made melancholy feel like a backstab,
the carpet of autumn leaves
divinely warming up my chilled skin.
You made the seasons kneel to the ground
whenever your breath speaks earthquakes.
You made the impossible get woven
to an unexpected miracle of epiphanies,
surrounding the old forest of yours,
where the lover of lily browns out in
a baked hard wilt, dwelling in each petals,
and each ancient moments of
the cascading souls that lies
in your name
©sarah_
J