The prolix extended to centre winds that blew,
forming fusion intent to allocate
the emptiness, succumbed, that grew,
new reflections journeyed wherever
strangers, suspended, threw your memory,
and I can’t breathe this stale air.

On dark mountains we walked paths lit
by moonlights lies and romantic twists.
Travelled softly, in quieter times,
to swim in shallow shores and let
the waters wash our naked sins away.

Idiots in love with the ticking hands of fate,
perpetual insignificance perpetually laced
through intensity and promise.
Scurrying to share the pieces of broken mirrors
that lacerate the tick tock leagues
we drew in mountain dew.

To feel alive, above the world,
we marched through tropical rains,
drenching our forms in warmer waters.
To feel more than the nine to five,
we grew into more than life expectancy,
feeling the sunrise form deformity.

Our return to that one rainy night,
between the darkness and steps of heaven,
the lives we laid bare beneath our cause,
became the shattered core of sunset.

And now I walk these paths alone,
observing your soul and promises, submerge
without love. The forgotten worlds
where your footprints came undone.
Could it have been any other way?


Poem © Phen Weston 2015

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