oh phrases, grand and furtive -
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always ...
"always", you confessed me ...
"until the stars themselves grow cold ... "
"and far, far beyond their spin."
my heart was young ...
it was as dew of the dawning -
fresh, sparkling with fascination,
ready to soak the brightness from day.
foolish lad ... callow and foolish ...
so hungry for the fruits of life and love,
that words were served up as the bloom of the banquet,
dripping in the guises that time and reality would come to scald.
oh, wisdom is the blade that cuts the chaff,
that severs all those once-heartfelt sprouts of romance and fire
from their green and ripe fastenings ...
aye, I still taste the sweet of those honeyed phrases,
the ones I placed all matter and intent within ...
the words that wound the threads of our hearts to a rope, secure,
and I wonder, with all wonder and awe,
how, if they were so genuine - so sacred -
can they be so frayed and fallow now?
naught but ashes to the cold wind ...
embers gutted to the dark ...
of Heaven.
~ 3rd Place ~ in the "Strand Choice G, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden | Year Posted 2018
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