I didn’t write these words…

I didn’t write these words,
I just lay them at your feet.
As an offering of something more
than strangers.
When we first meet
and form those little habits,
shake apart the memories of
the rocky roads ahead,
the cliff face comes,
stone by stone,
we watch our sins tumble alone
from the street
where we smile and laugh
at time between the cracks and coves,
those fledging droves
that know not what fickle seconds
hold our hands and stand bias
in the corners of the gardens we plant,
for better, nor worse,
and did you stay?

Even though
I didn’t write these words,
I just lay them at your feet,
they weren’t wrapped in cotton wool.
Those floating mimics
of each imagination, flaming
out to our crimson horizons,
and I held your hand against the back drop
of each and every hour
that ticked
with all the changing scenes of life.
Your eyes blazed and bound
with bonds of simple trust,
walking within the forests
of those azure realities we meld
and mould,
to be the lies craved in love,
to hold your hand
and keep your eyes
around a little longer.

And
I didn’t write these words,
I just lay them at your feet.
The crubling sylables
that never reach your ears.
Our pale rider in the burning sunset,
waiting for those dreams
against the tracks of promise,
the steady beating chug
as the wheels roll along the rails,
distant rumbling,
stormclouds with subtle voices,
that calls across the vexations
of distant and stars between us.
Lost
amongst the thickening walls
of ailments recalled.
Beyond the words i never wrote,
the definition of my remorse,
adrift in sincerity that shouts…

I didn’t write these words,
I just lay them at your feet…

   

© Phen Weston 2015

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4 thoughts on “I didn’t write these words…

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