metaphor

It will all work out

This isn’t working for me. Isn’t working in the setting of the sun or the waking of the dawn when the birds croak out a morning chorus to wake the tree. It isn’t working in the drops of the rain that fall in the middle of the night calling out names to people who can no longer hear them. It doesn’t work for me that every time I see a small glimpse of hope flickering between the pebbles and the cliff tops that you tell me it’s just an illusion that there is nothing really there: just maybe a firefly breathing his final breathe.

This no longer works for me

The soft insinuation that things will be ok, that I will be ok, at sometime and some point. The dull thudding in my heart when I hear what you don’t say and know that you couldn’t, only to be able to hear it ten times louder than any other constant noise. It’s the slow droning that nags my earlobes and pulls the despair out of my mind and onto the paper. That sheer expression of nonsensical love and what it means to have it, to recognise and hold onto it for dear life.

This isn’t working out for me

To be able to dance in the autumn light of a harvest moon but never truly taste the bounty. To steal a grape from the great cornucopia of life yet never be able to let it reach my lips and feel it’s cool skin pressed against mine. To allow the acorns to nestle in safe pockets of earth protected from harm yet never to see them rise into strong reliant Oaks. To never feel the rush of the wind filter through my hair yet watch it blow the leaves into submission. To have the sea air cling to my lips yet never allow my aching tongue to taste it.

These are things that don’t work out for me

You don’t work out for me

Fleeting Affinity

 

The moon was a fingernail

The sky, a satin, sapphire sheet

Stars were eyes, softly shimmering

She looked away.

His heart skipped

A beat

 

The traffic played a melody

The litter, a lively lily pond

Trees were fingertips gently teasing

He leant forward.

Her heart formed

A bond

 

The wind whispered words of warning,

Flowers were fleeting thoughts of doubt.

Mice scuttled a reprimanding message.

‘Slow down’ the road signs flashed out

 

Park railings soon became a prison

The bench, a bed of blame

Streetlamps illuminated their flaws

They turned apart.

Their hearts swallowed

The pain