I originally came to complain To cry so silent here that just my Creator could make sense of this outpouring This graffiti-papered grieving To tell the sky what it already knows My disdain for the wafting scent of muscle on the backyard grill next door My need for mercy for the muscle and might ripped from my chest To scream to the sky of this guy, who took And took And took what I gave readily — easily — from love And kept, and refused to acknowledge was gifted to him Yet looming, this anniversary, I can neither complain nor cry After all For all the love letters Eternal Penned by lovers, that, too, paper and letter the sky And God gave a garden and set my eyes That I would see Gardens of flowers for me
What historic shadows do we live with? What bricked, mortared, and hole-riddled, but still beating heart will we keep saying suffices? What love? What? This battered banner These stars Ready now, to tell true stories Able, finally To let go To grow
What part of it mattered, Sir Universe? What part of it shifted your dust any closer to mine? What particles of us loved any more or lied any less when we looked in the mirror each day?
What caused us to trifle with Truth? Frozen days are coming. Darkened days, at full throttle, now. What pieces of our hearts remain to force the thaw?
What sadness, were we to be, or not to be, content with the cold.
I have been to lavender fields on what you might call
“A great day.”
Oh that the flowers would have told me,
“Love buds not with him — come fast away!”
He’ll not pray that you sit
He’ll not fight the good fight
He’ll not be by your side ‘til the end
You’re the bride and the groom
You’re your own epic bloom
You’re your bravest and loving best friend
Whether in writing, or whether verbally
Neither by smoke-signal, ancient code, pony-express, street sign, Social, nor any other means of communication or Media
Except Shakespeare, himself
Provided instruction on the following:
Seeing the writing on the wall;
Surviving the sudden, unspoken goodbye;
Understanding in any way, shape, or form, heartbreak;
Avoiding the subsequent self-loathing;
Navigating the wrong kinds of depths, whilst working to resurface;
The exact location where one may file a writ of replevin to retrieve back their spirit — unshattered, whole, good as new — and perhaps their house key, as well; and,
Walking with confidence therewith.
Inspirational Credit:
“Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin, as self-neglecting.”
-William Shakespeare
What if I befriended time
Do not blame the Sun
I bemoan and decry
Our colors, like water…like oxygen…work well together…like art from artists, were we to work in earnest.
LisaRosier.com 