Wild Child

Wild Child

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Pieces of a Man

Our friendship stemmed
from the fallen petals
of black roses, thorns
deep into our jagged hearts
thriving droplets of hope.

Spread out before me, imperfections
there was no complexity about him
Or so I thought, colorful details
at every curve, glimpsing excitement
at the thrill of possibilities.

Muses, we knew we had, a darkened hallway
led to locked doors, the right-side
of the brain, souls outlined in ink, tears
And sleepless nights: haunting things.

He divulged to me his admiration
purple hues which spilled forth
from my darkness, passion of my nature
months passed as petals fell to the earth, cupped
only by the wind of his words.

You see, there was never a facade
only the raw sting, of his words
whipping against my blushing cheeks
I have nothing to offer you: literally.

He never minced words, simplicity
in his explanation, or so he thought
As if black and white didn't make grey
Coercing perplexed crimson sentiments
scattered by my searching hand.

He was always forthright, the skeletal key
Visible, in the keyhole
No whimpering. No doubt. No regrets lingering in the shadows, 
that his hands would never tamper, with the bones
stirring in our closets.

The saddest thing, I realized
was not the power in his words, but
the worth of his hand, weighted
in every moment lost, raw feelings
nurtured in the torture of prickling thorns.

Be advised, my mind warned me
tangled vines thickly grace those cracks
Do not tip toe through the hallway barefooted
hold true to your instincts, STOP!
Sneaking around in the dark.

I asked my myself, Are you sure?
Yank the key straight out, and
See the light, your own hands
holding the calavera: sweetness.
Pieces of a man, this puzzle: a thorn.
Meant to be, to blossom.

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