The Language of Statues

Of your stony form,

you stand, and I,

growing at the base,

guard you with my thorns.

Your insecurities, your words,

they seep into my roots,

and hold your secrets-- 

lovely treasure boxes, 

filled with salt and pepper.

There are still things that have

still have not passed your lips,

those secrets darker than your eyes.

Yet those stories fade into scars,

scars lined with silver and incense.

They are a monument 

to a time before, one that

I never shared with you,

Hidden memories that fester within

my chest and boil over with 

magma deep below my roots.

You do not regret this past, 

however, as as you recount tales

of laughter and sorrow.

What I would do to

know your etchings as well

as you do, to trace over every

one, laced with vines and moss

that keep you here, 

rooted to the spot.

I give you the sun and moon 

as you stand in the middle

of these council of trees,

with the warmest smile,

ever cold and unmoving.

Reviews

[lessa (kenzie)]

You do not regret this past,
however, as as you recount tales
of laughter and sorrow.

I like this part, I regret my past though, wish i could do a few things over again.
This is so nicely written.

[Kerra]

Such an emotional read here, Nicely expressed