To the writer of my story
A poem of turning the page in life for a new beginning
Hey you!
author of my dreams, writer of my story and playwright of my stage
hiding yourself in the dark.
We had a date!
But you’ve been quiet and absent leaving me standing here by this green mossy gate.
The rusted padlock bolted; I have no choice but to wait.
Your signs and synchronicities I’m trying so hard to translate.
Because my story has taken some twists and turns of late.
I thought I had a plan.
A plan that involved a man.
But that plan went down the drain.
Mano pause is now where I’m at and I’m standing without a clue in the sodden rain.
Drenched in the storm of torpid dissolution.
Withdrawn in seclusion.
There is no heat found only from fusion.
Making it through each day but barely,
but pain like rain is temporary.
My story needs a new chapter and verse.
At least one, just one I beseech you, without a curse.
My last love was a muso, probably, likely a big lose o.
So, bring me a love with a different hobby who will spirit me away on his horse with a buggy.
A romantic dude with honour, sincerity and no need for therapy.
Illustrate it stretched out before me.
Paint it with colours bright and beautiful, pink and purple.
Where dutiful and fruitful are as true as blue as skies that are
and sunny as a summer’s day.
Please put pen to paper soon and blow these cobwebs away.
Write my bliss with what history is made of.
Make that pen and ink dance me to the brink!
of stage and glory, spotlight shining down on me, I can barely think.
With life so full of love and twinkling stars,
these scars are far behind me now tightly secured like lids on jam jars.
Sing me a melody so soft and serene that I can cross this wide ravine.
Play in the long green grasses without a sneeze or a wheeze and rejoice in peace with softness and ease.
