I had stumbled, and wished
that words would not press
so softly against my temple,
that they were your voice
whispering into my eyes,
not just the imagining of my soul.
Plaster cast promises that dissipate
when memories surface that- with
wheres and whens – had never met,
but so many seemed to watch
their woes along the watchtower.
I couldn’t count, and refused to see,
the empathetic reimbursement
of another soul that she- craving
connections in the dark- had borne
in fuel and fire to become the sun.
Yet I was a blank canvas, waiting
impatiently to be absorbed
into her azure eyes- never thought
of as lovers morphed together- but
redemption, redemption, redemption,
denied-flaked away at loosening synapse.
In singular redesigned truths,
that locked away the string
of coarse heat in winter dreams,
she never read my soul, except
as a confession of such hungry guilt.
That guide to heart, but lacks
those forces we find in millennia sold
for show- as we freeze- but super nova
become the circumstance of remorse,
the cycle starts again,
and nothing becomes our dawn.
Poem © Phen Weston, 19th May 2016.