The carcass of my subliminal words echo through smoke filled corridors... it is an intricate dance where the subjective yearning of broken hearts and confused minds labor.
This is the food of the poet, deep emotion transcribed through longing, like the kiss of a long lost lover... feeling her... almost touching her... but she is gone.
So you wake up to sorrow and tend the flames of the candle of your heart, feeling her... but she is a ghost... you pray tomorrow she will come... the inspiration of a lovers heart, yearning to be touched. Dancing back and forth in this mired dungeon, from the window to the wall. Wondering if there are any roses in your garden that you could pluck for her before the seasons wilt young virulent life.
The life of a heart bleeding for seasons long passed when the dreams of champagne lips was the promise of tomorrow's wedding... When you find that you married the broken shards of a schizophrenic mind. That your wife has danced away and all you can do is to curse the wind that whispers of her a thousand miles away.
But maybe tomorrow, when you tend the flames again... the wind carries memories of new beginnings... maybe tomorrow, holding hands with a lover's shy smile... maybe tomorrow, she will let you begin again. We are in love with the seasons and dark winters eventually fade to spring.
Copyright © Peter Hubball