Anticipation

I was tasting the hint of the anticipation.
It was like waiting for a painting,
Coming out of my brush.
I desired to create something beautiful,
Or a piece of human fabric, he liked.
Of natural.
And then the feel I could not realize it.
It was even taunting,
when i didn’t even have the supplement.
Of his love.
As a light that puts shadows on the right places,
just to make
the same picture.
It looks better.
Somebody had already planted that flower.
I dreaded of the happening of nothing,
Of an havoc brush that never painted something,
On the canvas of his mind,
Of waters i could not stir.
Like i could not have the fragility of a rain drop,
Falling off gravity
And its caressing slowly,
drawing circles on the surface of the water.
I feared of the world void.
It did stand, for where it could have been created.
Something.
No pattern.
While I was looking for somebody, whose eyes shined under,
My naked thought,
As if it were a light, just in front of him, playing with his sight,
Or maybe a child.
Curious!
Eager!
In perpetual thirst for a woman touch,
Or maybe even me.
A character playing in a fiction act,
With a handwriting,
I had not invented yet.
With ingredients:
Letters of fire,
Serpentine bracelet,
Candles
And a red veil.
A writing,
That had to come and invade,
Make me run,
In hurry and rush on the street.
Clashing with a passerby,
And not feeling it,
As my mind blank
Following the hand writing,
And rushing to him
And passionately go on
And tell all of what i had created.
Giving him something,
He had never seen before.
Something he would travel miles to go and feel
A chant from the book of magic.
A spell he would fall for,
Or a tale of foreplay.
Everything was missing.
I had no clue.
No reason to reach out for him.
Nothing to reach and make my eyes shine.
To get out of bed and grab my brush and paint.
To come up with something amusing and playful.
I could not reach out
and paint on this canvas.
Bitter passion had left me,
this time wounding my play.
As he stood far away,
Ice memory that got my attention for a while,
A traveller in this life like me, as we met.
I observed the void,
As wondering,
If we ever had a reason to meet again?

Reviews

[Twilight]

This is a pretty good one, and I think that it's possibly one of your best poems; so far.

Within the more general theme of anticipation, some of your lines conceal further meanings within them.

You sometimes struggle with knowing which words, are most apt for sharing your thoughts - and feelings.

Twice, you used the "void" word. By "world" void, you may be suggesting a fear of the wider world? But, it could also be seen as an opportunity for you to seek solace elsewhere? To provide a temporary boost, which you deserve and need; elsewhere - somewhere abroad in the wider world?

That other void, at the end of this piece; possibly suggests a gap in your knowledge? An empty space of uncertainty, as regards your perception of "him"? Or, simply vexed with uncertainty by how best to approach him; over a period of time?

In some lines, it almost reads (and feels) as if a painter has been trying to create some beautiful art for "him"; but unsure of her source materials or ingredients.?

In other lines, you express thoughts about yearning; to strengthen your bond with him - through your art?

"A traveller in this life like me, as we met"; is a curious and lovely line. And, I remain pleased that we have met here.

This poem has charmed me, somewhat; and I could not resist responding. Even though, I will soon be departing for my next family meeting in Matlock Bath.

Hope that you have a good day ahead, as well. This poem deserves more attention. As you do.

[a_methyste]

Thank you a lot for the feedback. I always appreciate it.