Celio Somerset | + Follow Poet |
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Blue, The Understudy

Walking in the gaps of the dancing snow,
Holding my candle under the moon's glow,
I met the winter's breath, my footprints on the dirt.
I sang the story of my youth, and breathed the night.

I painted a land where the spirit met the heart.
Where I'd push constellations to make amends.
The home I sought, a theater of dreams,
The house for my dying feathers, it seems.

There, I met the woman who wrote fables.
And she sat on a throne in this kingdom.
She called herself the writer of prophecy.
Weaver of dreams, thief of the fates, like destiny.

She embraced me and told me she'd guide my way.
Across the stars, to go through hell and beyond.
We waltzed that night, a dance only she’d known.
Journeyed to a world of her own, in the unknown.

She told me to hold her hand while we danced,
But she held my heart like it was shattered glass.
It cut her too many times, and I tried to heal her.
I kissed her scars while we stared at the stars.

She carried the weight of my endless dreaming,
Chased my enemies, sealed my nightmares.
She cut through to my bones like a knife,
Softened me, dug my graves of truths.

But she took the flowers from my vase,
Replaced them in another's, and named him 'the one.'
She called her muses replaceable, an understudy.
She tossed me around like a bottle lost at the sea.

And I ventured this way through many storms.
I kept casting wishes into countless wells that
I will soon find the 'one', my star, the candle that
Lights my waxed heart, that shatters my glass dome.

And as I waited, my message in the bottle opened.
My rotting cork tugged no longer, and I saw
The person who'd read my paper, my manuscript.
And I sang my fairy tale to her, and she listened.

And there my heart burned, but hers were just ashes.
Her dead candle soul exhaled an invisible wind.
I whispered upon her fading embers, and it breathed.
It became a blue flame, a poem I loved for evermore.

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