Is poetry the ink of the soul,
the crumpled pages of my shattered heart?
Is love a broken ATM,
with currency dispensed as freely as the moonlight?
Are borrowed pieces of yesterday
ever loaned without expectation,
though life has been a subliminal temptation,
a wild and weathered infestation,
an alluring piñata of papier-mâché
crushed so many times before?
Barking tongues
sleeping dogs
silence crashing to the floor,
leaving words to tell the tale.
Each sunrise a chapter
revised and unveiled.
I know love can be a crumpled page
carelessly tossed into the bin.
No qualms, no regrets,
I’ve heard it said,
time may forgive,
but it never forgets.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned —
the fire is hot,
and the flame,
it will burn.
I’ve endured sutures and stitches
from a heart
traveled, unraveled and torn.
We once played like children in the gentle pouring rain
in brimming puddles without galoshes
or umbrella,
running wild
singing a cappella,
as day torched the night and north winds blew,
like weeds we grew.
Still I wonder —
when will we promise
not
to break or bend
those tender stems of the heart
once again
when we kiss
stitch by stitch
under the seductive moon?
Does the unraveled sky seem torn and unfed?
Where did we hide that needle and thread?
© Connie Song 2024. All Rights Reserved.
