Poetry

The Angel On My Doorstep

12:25 AM

There is an angel on my doorstep;
Bare feet in newly fallen snow;
Eyes, grey like storm clouds, dark rimmed with sleeplessness.
Hands warm despite their paleness,
Holding my heart,
And I can hear the sounds of violins.

My daily visitor,
Brief but regular,
Until I could not imagine each morning without her.
There is a comfort in sameness, even if it is imagined.
Celestial beings can touch the souls of mortals,
But they must pay the highest price.

Sudden vacancy.
Silence,
As if the love of humankind was too much.
I did not mean to drive her away.
If she only knew the emptiness,
Without the burning of her fingertips.

I am aged.
This is the last of my mornings.
The angel's empty footprints are on my doorstep,
Perfect in the mound of white.
The human heart beats warmer one final time.
The violins start to play.

Poetry

This Means War

11:54 PM

Moments.
Unable to be recounted.
And yet I do.

Like a golden film of yesteryear it plays before me.

The time when your eyes were so close
To mine
That our souls kissed
And in that instant
                                         I became a sunrise.

Two hands.
Accidental.
Nothing that means anything.
And yet it is all.

When such things transpire who can fight the fates?

It is useless,
But still I strive.
I surrender,
But I will not be beaten.

                                         There is more than just eternal happiness.