Subtle Memories.

    I wrote a story upon the spaces of sand kept still within the small hours of the morning, with full intentions to kindle the enthusiasm of waves crashing over how much time I had left. Populations of pebbles awake eternally grateful for a night as this, naturally composed around the indents of a life that has altered the rifts, changing course of the current that has swept away most of these dreams. A keep sake for the horizons departure releasing an aroma which continues to bless such lovely bones placed within tainted snow, causing the story I once burned into the sand to slip away.
    Flakes of dust illuminate the places we've been, leaving an almost desolate trail of trains and empty boxes containing postcards from a world longing to be forgotten. Pictures of memories cut into the shape of hearts dipped in marbled glass, hung above the height of the tallest building we could see. Before the night became frustrated with the muffled sounds of celebration barred beneath castles of shells, it smiled as it danced across the surface of an ocean that will surly set our story free.
    Arched over the three hills that appear oddly at a distance are only meant to deceive, hidden behind the bridge of splintered leaves we stumbled over a lighthouse. Growing from the depths of darkness creating a beacon to the restless, we have found stones of gold and silver. Obscure abrasions on the wall framing an almost unrecognizable painting of a leaf slipping away. A never ending staircase that twists and turns into spirals and loops has elevated to the highest level we could reach, if only now we could get passed this wall.
    The magnitude of its strength is enough to silence destruction with a quake, its bricks will surely come tumbling down. With no recollection of how this came to be, the separation between our story written in the sand has placed a worried frown of what she'll never read. This barrier in size has sprouted roots 
into the ground spreading chaos amongst a colony of frightened pigeons, almost disturbing to see this fear subside when I focus my sights at the carton of cigarettes placed gently on the floor.
    How peculiar it is to inhale the famine of floating islands while speaking lightly of gravity, as if it will never cease to let down. The fear of not knowing, all the while you were sharing smiles with someone else. The tide will never let up, so I must learn to face the tragedy of harsh storms. It turns out that tomorrow will never last and those humble clouds fighting for a chance while remaining motionless has given fate the upper hand, threw bloodshed and scolding showers of purple rain washing away the words of love I wrote upon the surface of the sand. Will cease to be.
     It is why I pay homage to the kings of conquered pasts and realize the gold and silver we once found is nothing more than ash. The question to why I bothered to believe this story carved into the sand will ever last is in the opinion of hope, the honesty in this matter is she will never know how loved she could have been. Nature has found course towards that patch of land near the stones, The honesty in this matter is we have drifted apart while the remains of our love was buried beneath the shore.
    With only time as a remembrance, I fear these subtle memories have become no more.

Reviews

[Briana O'Connor]

I'm always amazed by the people who can weave together a poem in story form while still maintaining the essence and elegance of the art. This is true talent. Your words flowed so smoothly and had such emotional impact. I could feel the lines unfolding in pure feeling. Well penned.

[Michael]

Thank you very much. Im glad you enjoyed my poem.