Behind a broken heart waits an aging sun, plotting to break free from the insipid cloud's claw and run on feet that defies gravity. But Broken, I tell you, is a homeless vagrant, battling the sea with a lion's heart even if Hope smirks at him perilously poised on live crackling wires.
There's a river flowing inside his heart that feels empty because Life in it sleeps in a trance to a sad lullaby Orpheus played on his lyre. He waits for his darling's kisses on a spring day, when the purple crocuses will bloom and tickle awake the sleeping fishes and the river in him will again pulsate to his lover's touch.
If my poetry doesn't rhyme, would you still care to sway along to its emotions?. This is an unrhymed poem for broken hearts because battered hearts still beat beneath troubled waters, Perhaps a little slow, but then a rhythm it picks up, when you find the right beat to groove to it and make it your own.
Venus burns through the night stuck to the pages of unwritten eyes the rest of the night is but kohl with which you painted the wilderness in the pages of unwritten eyes
and yet a chill simmers in the fallen leaves of Fall we stand beside each other unfaithful to all
had Venus not burned holes in the paradigms of faithfulness had your kohl not obliterated the opaque wilderness had we not reimagined what the world could have been but for the Order of Planets neither you nor I had ever seen look over the shoulders as a reluctant Mars smoulders and a cold moon draws up the tides
I do not know how far I should go may be to Venus maybe to your door and yet a chill simmers in the fallen leaves of Fall preceding a Winter most silent of all
hold me my faithless close to your breast fill me with warmth of a million Winters some gone and the rest and in the conjugation in the eyes of all sin subsumed in the kohl by Venus singed and write our book of verses in the pages of unwritten eyes
in that lonely hour when the streets and alleys have gone to sleep and the windows loom over the grey shuttered against the darkness
I sit on the stairs of the Church wondering who shut God's door on me
frankly it does not matter I did not come here to look for God nor did I expect to find Him for divinity does not wander about amongst rows and rows of empty pews an empty altar and stained-glass windows that are soaked in darkness
I came to look at you in one of the million windows plied up on both sides of the alley and to be absorbed in the divinity in your eyes and in the fragrant warmth of your breasts
But when a million windows are closed against you in the dark stillness in-between
when the street hurls back my footfalls at me and the Church is closed for the night
perhaps it is best to light a candle and leave it melting in its wax on the street of lost hopes and a million windows shuttered against me or against the darkness