My Garden of Poetry

A single page entry
could make a novel
of a thousand pages
written in vanity.

Kept out of sight
from tenacious eyes
which claw
its delicate words.

It is the gold kept locked
button by button
within my being.
There is no combination to this safe.

As it is with the soul and mind,
where flesh to flesh, bottom lip to upper lip
is locked as a secret
in my garden of poetry.

Forever harvested
within the keeper’s soul,
if my body dies,
my mortal words succumb.

As the setting sun makes its last gasp
across a so dimming horizon,
I clinch my diary
tighter to my chest.

“Is the sun my beating heart
and my fears the night?
My happiness sinks into the tomb
that is the dusking horizon!”

Suffering a sting of tear streams
down my so delicate cheek,
my blonde hair swayed
in the path of the northerly gusts.

The last touch of the sun’s rays
sunk into its watery grave,  
tenacious rays screaming desperately
not to be buried alive beneath the lid of the twilight.

My moment
was on my heart’s last flicker.
I asked myself aloud;
“what’s happiness?”

“Fate, within the pre-ordained future will constrain me.”
Oh, the receding daylight
of the coming winter has arrived!
Only vanity finds itself warm in that of the oppressive night!

As of now my sun has drowned.
Decaying into the eerie night
within its forbidding cold,
the nails of the coffin lid have been hammered.

The journey of glacial tears has
left scarring paths.  
Each tear icing down
my numb cheeks.

The snow of the coming winter had come.
The arctic breaths I felt on my neck
have begun to set in, provoking a prompt death.
I know I await more deaths of my daystar.

There I stood on the edge of the rocky cliffs
witnessing the serene waves softly coming in.
Then the anger builds and charges  
into the jagged rocks just below me; receding swiftly in the undertow.

My soul; my island, beaten by constant waves of sorrow,
I’ll stand sorrowfully alone every wintry sunset
waiting for a warm breath on my neck
that’ll never come.

My hair, dark and rich
as the earth in my dying rosebush garden,
sways over my tear soar cheeks,
defending them from the gust’s relentless assaults.

The dying rosebush garden
I have teared over
feels the shock of early morning frost.

Possessing roses,
manipulate anger to love,
begin to wither beneath
dominations of the chill of reality.

This new season
had brought the incense
of battle
with no sense.

Can I sing?
A string of notes
makes the early morning bird flee in envy.

Would that cause my rose petal to bud
into my long-awaited peace?

Even so in my youth,
I had lost my velvety voice from long disuse.
I can speak to the world only by my gentle eyes.

I have a diary in my keeping that forever immortalizes me.
It is a diary of gothic poetry, holding my innermost desires
of adventure, sex, love and most of all… acceptance.

Poetry that possesses such precision
that even the absent-minded feel the sting.

Aspiring sorrow in a diary
I fit quietly beneath my skin,
from the judgmental ways of the world
beyond my soul’s paradise.
 
However, the heat and cold bonded
to make a fog that neither could find the other.

This chill once again held its repute,
pursuing warmth to hibernation,
to coat my inner will
with tomblike frost.