A dead poem, unread, as most of them are, lies dormant on pages, a marking, a scar. An idle catharsis, a tragic mistake, a rush of bloods hopes, a rush of bloods weight
For as a breath in space, for just a moment in time, my feelings for you became more than just mine, it pressed on a wrist, it clutched at a pen, your name put pressure to paper, again, and again.
It summoned a phrase, it grasped a confession,
It stirred up commotion, it wished for perfection. It strained at ones edges, it pulled at ones teeth, it's syllables clawed up both pain and relief
It is your dead poem, though you don't know it had died, you may have well have loved it you may well have cried,
you may well have recoiled, to birth a mistake,
or taken my hand, as at a funeral, or wake
--L Mizzi, 1/5/2024
Theme : Love
Photo by lalesh aldarwish: https://www.pexels.com/photo/black-pen-near-white-printer-paper-147633/