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The War For What We Are
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Dark Poetry A light was somehow found one night, illuminated amongst the dark.
Discovered in the midst of confusion and along the miles of a distant reality– to diminish the pain, to fill this forsaken void– it shown with exuberance and determination.
Like a rose that emerges from the winter’s last chill and opens for the dawn of spring– bound and dedicated to its cause.
There is a pause in the trail of morning dew that streams down the silken petals.
(The roses cry.)
The flowers bloom and light defies.
Above the depth, she flies.
Love is warmth and passion fierce.
And like the fevered crimson of weeping roses, they burn for the cool comfort of the night.
But it was known as they began, that she would lose the absent day she spent.
Left behind, once more, as he saluted and waved goodbye in the distance.
Kissed her lips, but showed resistance in the faintly whispered, “I love you.”
And whether it was truth or not, it was believed by her soft-spoken devotion.
Her words, that echoed in such hushed tones, became somber and bordered the fragile thread of meaning.
Unsure and consumed with fear, she watched him slip away.
Composure, salvaged only by their mutual tears.
(The children cry.)
The flowers dry and now she dies.
Below the depth, she lies.
Love is cold and passion ceased.
And like the decay of the crumbling roses, she alone scatters into the cold, lonely night.
His words, that echoed in such hushed tones, became doleful, teetering on the frayed edge of meaning.
Kissed their lips, but showed resistance in his gentle promise of return.
And whether it was truth or not, it was believed– with faith and devotion she clung helplessly to.
Because deep inside her madness, they spoke of nothing but their sadness; knowing she had lost again.
Left behind, once more, simply bleeding goodbye in the distance.
