No-One Is Ever Home
I cannot speak of dreams or wings, only of little feathered things.
If I could grasp the concept of all the dreams I've lost,
then perhaps I could learn to fly before death takes what cannot die.
I ran for the heavens, ran from fear, anywhere but here!
If I will love you, could you love yourself?
If I were a branch, could you be my tree?
I swore to you the ocean's love but it was no place for such a timid dove.
You searched and searched, found your home, but left me bereft.
I came to the garden, old and new; kneeled again
to leave my crown – withered leaves and branches torn.
The sky was blue the day I knew you would not stay,
you'd promise me many a thing, but never followed through.
Solar skies burning bright, torn apart by its own vicious light.
Candles burn and destroy the wick; melt themselves and never find completion.
I am as empty as empty can be – a state of non-self.
If I were to run; would I run out or run towards?
If the sun is a candle, is it running out or running towards the end?
Who receives the light in this home? For it is neither you nor I.
There is never anyone home, we sit darkly behind our eyes.
Our windows are always shuttered, foreclosed. We're indisposed.
As brilliant as you promised, as cold as you had left,
my heart is broken by the absence of silence.
Run, run, run, but never will you find an answer
to all the questions you hold in piteous stasis.
Remember all those years ago when you'd sworn to let me go?
The sky split, rain broke down, and I lost my crown.
I held my hands up high, to hold the sky together, but
still, it spilt rain, cold and grey, crashing upon us?
Did we drown beneath the onslaught or find a way to stay dry?
I promised you I would not cry, and yet, I find my eyes are not dry.
The fields may die. Mud and rye. Black as my eyes – coal burnt below.
I stand, hands smeared with ash. Nothing is washed away by waters' fall,
it only makes it that much harder to crawl.
Author's Note:
Thank you for reading and voting! I hope you all are enjoying these poems so far!
ŞİMDİ OKUDUĞUN
The Dragon Became a Modern Poetaster
ŞiirPoetry is a dance of words, a guise of flesh, and a reprise of thought. The myths of old are forgotten on modern tongues. Such adventurous spirits seek new vessels - fresh words to don and call their own. We shall write them home, you and I. Let the...
