PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The letters and those lyrics to the lovebird songs,

Along with the dried brown roses and the romantic trinkets,

Burn like branches in the cruel fireplace,

Erasing memories clean,

But leaving rubber erase marks like indents from a pencil marking,

On a gray ash heart,

Flimsy like paper and yet still clinging like old glue.

The heart beats don’t beat for anyone anymore,

Just out of habit and a pitiful hope of nothing,

Out of confusion and the fear of the loneliness of silence

Without that beat.

Never noticing the passing seasons,

Leaves sprouting, leaves growing, leaves dying, leaves falling,

Trees left to brave the barren winter bite alone.

A half-hearted sun is brutalized by an unforgiving night,

Darkening every dream with the dread of the threshold of a new day.

Those crude markings of messy penmanship bubble on the paper

With the heat of the furious flame,

The stalking shadows of the flickering light dancing in victory upon the mourning walls,

The house creaks with the question of what is next to come,

Who the next prospect may be to fill up its space,

Crowd its heart with regurgitated romance,

The same broken record,

Just different players in the impossible chess game

That she could never win.

Defeat in the form of a familiar Valentine’s Day bag,

One given with love and returned with a goodbye,

Stuffed with expired letters that scream of a vacated love,

Decayed and hollow like the broken trees of the storm,

Cutting the power lines and leaving only the illumination

Of a bitter and enslaved fireplace

Where she gets her only warmth

And light so the black doesn’t swallow her feeble existence whole.

Her method works,

Live, lose, burn, and forget, because,

To this day,

Her heart still beats,

Underneath the ashes.