They Never Tell You

They tell you it will hurt,
The void, the churn, the silence,
The hoping and the deafening drumming of your heart,

They tell you what you will miss,
The hugging, the kissing, the whispering,
The bed that smells of quiet lovemaking and wine,
Warm bodies intertwined in the morning,
So you hide your tears till the sun turns black,
And then cry silently into your pillow,
Praying sleep will end this dastardly dream,

You miss the kiss before you start the day,
the phone calls on lazy afternoons,
surfing channels on the tele before bed,
knowing exactly where her head will rest and,
Where your hands will talk to her skin,
They never tell you, you will miss the routine,
The predictability, the careless monotony,
No! They never tell you that.
Bastards!

Source - Grist

My Home

Collecting pebbles from the forsaken shores,
of so many stories left untold,

to where I built my house of stone,
a humble place to call my own,

by some twist of fate or enchanted lure,
you found its inconspicuous door,

and walked in, forever to change,
this inscrutable fort into a home,

let the windows breathe life in,
intoxicated the air with the aroma of your skin,

lined each wall with an unforgettable memory,
Oh! what poisonous alchemy,

silence found a voice in its corridors,
the light surged in and cured my soul,

somewhere in its heart, you planted the seed,
of a love that fulfilled my greed,

in the comfort of your embrace it slowly grew,
into something that neither really knew,

but like all good things that come undone,
the battles were lost that should have been won,

and the shadows slowly crept back in,
all that was noble was now a sin,

now the house sits lonely, empty inside,
the stones echo, a laughter that's died,

but the will to strive is still alive,
nurtured by the life you left behind,

what was once a thing of beauty, now can't be seen,
but I hold it close, like you once held me,

I know your spirit will return in time,
for I can't lose, what's already mine,

I come back to these desolate shambles still,
the house holds a part of me within,

It's the one place I don't feel alone,
It's the only place I call my home.

Image courtesy - PhotoGraphik

Tiny Catastrophe

They talk of dark alleys and exotic cuisines,
of sliced wrists and smut magazines,
of bastard children and mothers demeaned,
of love stories and androgenies,

They listen from behind their blinded eyes,
some mysterious whispers, some beautiful lies,
rising against the setting sun,
young lovers and their tragic goodbyes,

They fondle with their plastic skin,
a love expressed, both curse and shrine,
and spit their renditions upon my face,
scars with no name or crime,

The sun rises, they run and disguise,
put on their shirts, jackets and ties,
unshackle my chains and mend my cries,
clean their faces, put on their smiles,

But they speak not that, what my heart decrees,
nor hear what my pungent soul pleads,
this magnanimous world it seems, is just too big,
I'm but its tiny catastrophe.

(Image courtesy - Granny Annie)