Desperate times oft-times call for desperate measures, and I feel
this being one of them takes precedence
above all
else.
If only it had not arrived at that intersect after all else failed.
We should not be as ungrateful, realising your
diligence and hard work, and most
certainly,
you are most deserving of the honour which has been bestowed
upon you. An honour so many feel should not have been
yours, but a select few others than
you.
We are disgruntled, acknowledging what has been taken from us
without feeling, what we describe as a heartless act of
nothing less than sabotage,
thinking
you were far better than the lot of us. And so what if you are
and were. That, in itself, can be easily overlooked,
and should be overlooked by those
who have given you a most
prestigious
award that you should not have received, and the very thought of you receiving it irks us to no end. We demand reciprocity.
What has transpired has driven us
quite mad.
And there is nothing worse than a madding crowd. The moon.
How has the moon come into play. Yes, it is a full moon.
Is that why we are mad.
Your smile.
It gives you pleasure knowing of our madness. It is a temporary
affliction, soon we will regain our senses, our cognitive
reasoning,
Things will remain as they are…
Has it come to
this?
To have read all of which lie within your eyes. Coffee,
we should have a cup of coffee; doughnuts,
too, or a blueberry
muffin?
Yes, coffee and doughnuts and perhaps a blueberry muffin,
Yes, nothing could be
better, let’s.
To have gazed longingly and lovingly into the unfathomable depths
of your eyes. And to have lost all sense of reasoning,
what little you had left me
with
after our brief encounter.
It was as though you had hypnotised me, leaving me unaware
of my senses, and left to wander, having lost my sense
of direction.
Not even the brightest of stars shall lead me out of this darkness.
What hold do you have on me? What spell had you cast?
What evil machination shall I soon dread?
Were it your intent?
It intrigues me.
If only you had not left a whisper of your fragrance,
I would have not been led back
to you….
She
was always inquisitive, and I felt that she was a delicate, blooming flower,
embracing early dawn, while wanting to feel the sun
the warmth of our
sun…
It was a fleeting memory, in the manner in which she lay withering, my love;
leaving me lost in a dream.
A current of air undulates around her as she breathes breathlessly,
one so petite and fair, she, one without an imperfection,
seeking replenishment, one,
longing
to bathe in a soothing, gently falling rain.
Am I to describe her as a new growth that mysteriously took root
A delicate flowering bloom thriving
beneath our
sun.
She is becoming more and more appealing to me.
Not that I felt she never was,
My delicate flowering
bloom…
Or are my eyes
deceiving
me.
I fear retribution as I wallow in agony, regrettably enquiring
of her integrity, and left with the memory
of her intoxicating
fragrance.
There are moments betwixt and in between unimaginable
and incalculable, considering the long years
gone by…
Long
Have I waited for her, distant as we had become. If only
we could bend time, arrive at a point,
past, present or
future….
Regrettably, we cannot, and I will always be left without her.
A delicate persuasion, the look within her eyes, the whispering’s of her utterances. How easily she had captured me. I await
her every command having lost
my will.
Enter darkness, the subtle sounds the night makes,
Most frightening; what lies amongst
the shadows.
Were I more than I am, would she desire my protection.
She, having left me in a weakened state, I grew
fearful, as had
she.
What lay afore she and I remained relatively unknown.
Am I to question her authority?
I fear her.
As I fear no other. What punishment is she to inflict.
Drearily, she gazed upon an ashen sky,
Its burnt colourings of dark
orange and grey
intermingling with broken shards of magenta.
As flakes of black dust and debris swirled and floated to the barren
ground beneath, once an overflowing
flowering growth…
’twas not a dream, the living and dying and the in between.
The images which pierced and became embedded
within her soul now dreary
and cold.
And she, weeping her tears of crystalline ice.
About James Sterling
James began writing at 13, and he has published about 12500 pages of poetry on Facebook! He retired from work at the age of 62.
James is proud to share that he never edits what he has written, which is the beauty of his writing!!
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