Waiting under a midnight sapphire sky
Chandeliers of white lilies and lotus –
A petalled, frilly, perfumed canopy
My dreams tangled with sorrow, best buried among the weeds now
Love lying in the graveyard where the crows pick at its bones
Jewels long gone; Tossed into stolen piles of hoarded trinkets
To rust like metal in an angry, vicious sea
This twisted disaster –
Ghosts dancing to a funeral dirge before death bothered to extract its execution
No ritual, no exorcism would have turned grey into color
Weeping words slithered down sun-starved cheeks, while the moon chanced painful glances –
Wondering how to unravel severed veins from pumping, empty hearts
How to find remorse in a vacant vessel
There will be no contented sighs for this discontented fiction –
And tears are better served to authentic paupers, fools and dreamers
Than to this charming, beguiling illusion that deceives the damned
Swarms through blood like bees from their bludgeoned hive
But this trial by fire melts… cauterizes traitorous skin from solid bones –
A cocooned awakening…
Sears the patina from tarnished pupils until fallacy cracks into withered, new-born moons
That coax poetic dancing on the riverbank
Primal, unabashed gyrations that shake specters from a damaged soul
Sensuous flailing… Delicate feet and slender legs, gracious thighs whispering to private gardens
Soft belly, wispy arms, willowy fingers, pillowy breasts, plump mouth, flowing hair –
Moon-kissed skies… lips pressed against hopeful eyes…
A new season of voluptuous photographs
A new breeze through the open window
Upon which burnt words disperse, then crumble into dust that coats the tumbleweeds in this arid desert
Rolling away from this sacred border onto the parched landscape of forgotten dreams
Where the sun will bake their spiky bristles into brittle nests
That the magpies snap and gather, to carry off into the trees of yesterdays archives
What remnants remain of another lifetime, wrapped in iridescent stars –
Tossed into the sky for the sun to keep…
Waiting under a midnight summer sky
Chandeliers of purple-sweet lilacs
Their breath blooming dreams in the garden and on my lips
Tears ground up in the drain until the switch broke
Sutures dissolving in a thousand quiet, unblessed wounds
The moon whispers mystery into my ear, brings new words for my calloused fingers to leak
Time is turning over on itself
The ache is now a constant, dull shadow, a spirit storm tolerable but deserving of a funeral
The shovel is where he left it
I have avoided those small atrocities that he left behind –
There are no angels concerned with loves small atrocities
But summer is fleeting and Fall must not be abandoned to heartless acts
So beneath falling silvery stars that burn deep ravines in the lavender stained sky
I am an eclipse, a shadowed summer, filtered through a ripe, late sun lens
My inky pupils my brooding pen, burning skeleton images onto crisp linen, coffee-stained pages
Writing lyrical requiems until the last dead give up their ghosts
And the moon births my eyes
Discover more from Theater of Sorrows
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
Theater of Sorrows 
Your work is superb! and incredible dark which is what I love about your work.
The word choices are perfect.
LikeLike
Thank you for such a sweet compliment. I’m happy that you enjoy reading my work.
LikeLiked by 1 person
🙂
LikeLike
My inky pupils, my brooding pen. Ah, you discover islands of darkness and harbor them to such a great light. Beautiful.
LikeLike
So sweet, thank you. Please do feel free to offer suggestions/critiques of any of my work. I’m always interested in whatever feedback others care to give.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Not yet. Your poetry is very refreshing and consistently amazing. Do tell critique about my work too.
LikeLike
As is yours. It’s so nice to read work from gifted writers on here, work that pulls me in, challenges my mind, lulls me, inspires me, excites me… So grateful to have found my way onto here, and to have found you and your happy little fingers clacking away, bringing a bit of lovely to my life 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Wow. This is stunningly beautiful, every line in itself like a small poem. Wistful, regretful, sensual and breathtaking. I could mention many amazing lines, but this for me seemed key:
There are no angels concerned with loves small atrocities But summer is fleeting and Fall must not be abandoned to heartless acts.
I noticed the use of Fall here, and felt it was significant.
Amazing work!
LikeLike
Thank you. I so appreciate you taking the time to write such considerate comments. I’m happy you like this piece, and that line. I like this piece but it isn’t one of my favorites, but that line is. Fall is my favorite season and has been an unflinching theme in my life. And many of us have those small atrocities, tangible reminders that the one we loved has left behind (the shovel is where he left it), tucked away in corners, closets, under beds, on back patios, in drawers… Strange little items that we ask, who would have thought that seeing this would make my heart wince? Would make me literally say, “Ouch.” Yes, loves small atrocities. So bitter yet so sweet.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Yes, those tangible reminders can jump out on us at any given moment, even in the garden shed… (I hope that at least is where the shovel is). I really loved this poem, you are a very talented writer.
LikeLike
Awww, as are you. I can easily lose myself in your beautiful verse, your beautiful words. Haha, the shovel is out back somewhere. Interestingly, we’re talking shovel/the past, and it just started pouring out. Maybe you’ll think it’s strange, but I’m wondering what the downpour is a sign for 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Nothing like a sign from the universe, and I know water holds significance for you. Maybe an outpouring of emotions. It rained here yesterday and I felt like I was going to become one with the dark and stormy clouds.
LikeLike
Haha, yes I was thinking the same thing. It started pouring down so hard that I was startled by the noise. I hadn’t realized that it was supposed to rain. “… I felt like I was going to become one with the dark and stormy clouds.” Love this!
LikeLiked by 1 person
I love a good stormy downpour. Sometimes it can refresh the spirit.
LikeLike
Words so true, poet.
LikeLike