It occurs to you out of the blue, when you are submerged in silence in the middle of a night, right when the owls fell into sleep, as the moon fade beneath a dark cloud. It starts along a feeble line with no rhyme, but it has to be painful. Not the mildest tingle you feel as you write a romantic piece about her memories. It's not the awe filled anguish as you write an ode, or the burn of the kindled passion as you inscribe a ballad. No, it's not the torment of an elegy, or the twinge of a sonnet. It is the crucifying pain at the bottom of the heart, deep rooted somewhere in the hinterlands. It soars up to your throat to become a lump. The surge of raw emotions may even fill your eyes, but you won't say a word. Nothing would describe it, no one could see it, still the intensity will eat your sleep. It occurs to you when all the shadows repressed in an abyss breathe out. All the dusky dreams, ghosts of unmet fancies, humiliations, deceptions, pretentions, prejudices, regrets and guilt. It needs a way out, years of solitude has made it restless. Your metaphors won't suffice to sketch something that equates to it's torture. Allegories and parables won't paint hues on it's agony, alliterations and assonances will not make it euphonious, it won't fall like a nursery rhyme. Yes, it'll have ironies, plethora of ironies. That alone won't make it a good poem You can't imprison that lines in meter, it will not soothe you with rhymes, it doesn't dance in a rhythm. Yes, it's not your usual poem, it's the worst one you'll ever see.
heartseaseThis is profound and brilliantly expressed
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Those streets dipped in yellows, the sodium glow in blank air, a breathing emptiness came in like a somnolent child seeking a bed. The wall hung still lives on a picasso piece needed a break, but monochromes were too jaded for an endeavor. Northern wind had moonflowers, it was too timid to cross my windows. Then, the silence started talking in subtle tones. The toddler talk matured into a deafening scream as I listened, at the surge of its tide, the waves brought me your shore. Her memories are like seasons to me, at murky swamps of nights, a blackberry winter, an avalanche of heartbreak in piercing snow. At evenings of coffee fumes, a susurrus autumn, with amber leaves painting pastel sunsets with countless meadowlarks. And mornings of venice mallows, sultry summers, entwined strings of warbling vireos and rustling wind. At first light, before the butterflies wake, it's a flute playing wildest songs of the tribes of happy isles. And I missed you in every breath, not just when starry pearls adorn the cloudy blanket, every passing piece of time. Now the welkin turns lilac, flocks of starlings leaped into quiet mist with wings stretched to hope, to the scintillating glitter of the morning sun. They're quite a sight, with weightless wings, they leave for sustenance. As the sun bathe its rays in marmalade waters, they find their way home sate. In poetries, we'll become children once again, purple stained blueberry smiles tasting strawberry lollipops on a summer afternoon, and you were in a sundress with painted violets. And as we meet, as our hearts beat in the rhythm of flamencos, nothing can resist the déjà vu hitting.