Fire-dwarfed we all sit,
stand, wait,
drawing along timelines
scythe-eyed for news
or perhaps revelation
that this is all
just a dream, a joke.
Dust-tongued our words
dry up like sand
through an hour glass.
All gone and past
leaving only empty air.
A promise
cracked apart.
History pour out,
breaks the damn of grief
and dark-vowelled words,
replacing now with then
as what will be
already spread its roots
in the tear-culled.
There is a collective
misguided
assumption,
that we know the words.
Singing like rusted taps,
gargling and spluttering
our way to the chorus
where enthusiasm trumps
experience,
and pipes swell and burst
so all is noise
and furious revelry.
The wave of it crests
breaks,
washes us along
to the next line.
As real as the misting
of our breaths
as we sing.
The cold is not felt
in the thick of it.
When you arrived as the snowdrops melted,
pressed cherry blossom to my breast,
told me love is like a flower in bloom,
already closer to an end than the start.
Pressed cherry blossom to my breast,
found thorns that left their marks,
already closer to an end than the start
when sorrow grew from these seeds.
Found thorns that left their marks,
taught me how to cut out dead wood,
when sorrow grew from these seeds
pruning became vital to overall survival.
Taught me how to cut out dead wood,
told me love is like a flower in bloom,
pruning became vital to overall survival
when you arrived as the snowdrops melted.
So I blamed you,
because it was easy,
sweeter on the tongue.
Didn’t have the bite
of admitting
I could have been wrong.
I’ve just been writing up three longish poems so I felt something short and sweet was in order tonight.
One sip
to poison a prince,
his teeth sunk
into forbidden fruit,
while one-true-love stands
waiting,
patient,
the perfect good girl
all fairy-tales and smiles,
alone.
Drinks her own potion,
steps free
of skin
crafted from paperbound
volumes brittle with age.
Breathes.
Finally.
Screams.
Carol J Forrester 
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