A part.

There is no beauty in the shattering

When all that is left is broken pieces

and the splattering gasps of a broken heart

falling apart at the seams.

No more flattering.

It seemed alright to tell you,

spell out my love for you,

but folly is that familiar taste of bitterness,

wintermelon smashed into smithereens,

my twice-woven, thrice broken dream.

 

It is the emptiness that moves me,

A hollow feeling, reeling in a sense of lost dignity.

The death of possibilities, filling me.

Do you remember what promise tastes like?

I don’t anymore, the floor beckons,

imploring me to lay aside, confide in

the small still quiet of tile,

resting awhile on the smoothness

to soothe a jagged breath,

to smooth a ragged head.

 

I miss the sound of tempered silence,

2 parts calm and 1 part defense against the possibility

of defeat, so bittersweet…

because now I can taste freedom,

rain that reigns like glory,

but maybe I’m just confused,

defusing delusion into subtle illusions,

and maybe its the musings

of a broken heart.

Falling apart.

Image

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