we unfold wooden fans; a dozen hidden splinters
in the blades, cutting us before we have the chance.
you drew me in like a stringed balloon, your smile
faded into the wind - a daffodil breathing poison.
little black books bearing burns; we scraped
our knees on sandpaper with boredom.
laugh, you said,
and i did.
the clunking of an out-of-tune organ. the ritual
of a thousand horsemen galloping blindly into
a forever that won't last. the tousled manes of those horses,
how they vanish like inevitable sunsets.
there is an ache where your eyes once were.
i brush it out with the fans. not even the wind can
scatter the memories.
this is a product of procrastination
This is a really beautiful piece and makes my heart ache. I love your wording and the poem really speaks to me in ways I can't even hope to explain. You've done a terrific job well done
p.s. all the best things are the fruits of procrastination