Shall I Speak?

Dry as winter's winds I play my poetry of dwindling returns,

Lost in folds of starving streets, in the gaze of a dying tavern,
December haunts our frightened limbs, lungs court the handsome vapour,
And twilight brings the end of term; we gather in quiet stupor-

(How days flew by the breathless-broke, by broken homes and broken hearts,
Whilst godless men resumed their trade, to secure the falling charts;
And who'd weep for love infringed of the surplus of silent scholars?
Now collect stray musings midst the campus scenes, scattered through the years.)

Regard the pallor of the open air theatre, do you hear poetry in its stasis?

Unveiled in the scarlet sun, as it sleeps on glorious summer legacies;

Stories of a distant past dissolved like unnamed graffiti in acetone,

Pity the proud skeleton that tremors, deep in its hollow bones.

Yet the world be damned and shut forever, for all it means to we three,

Perched on voids midst certain edges, towered by the circling canopy,

Then in darkness we return to spectres of an abandoned youth;

O' sweet escape I've so long missed, thus pursuit of pleasures uncouth!

Why words estrange the truer we speak, could it be the wind's furore?
Or the violent honesty that eyes nurture in faces now mature?
Warn of disputes and differences dense, to be veiled in smoky blinds,
To dwell in denial of how we've aged, charmed by tales juvenile...

(In endless rounds greet horrors of time, unseen midst waning days,

Such the steady state of strangers I've dearly known, if only to then part ways,

What fateless fate so awaits as the old give way to the new?

And I sink in scenes as blurred yesteryears, sink in answers 'skew.)

My two stargazers search the sky, while the test-tube-tinkerer ponders,

As diverged roads in the horizon smile - reconciliation is in order;

How dense the grass'd grow since times of chaos 'neath the heavens,

The march of slogans, the chords have died; we must each choose our silence!

O' strangest nostalgia for present, are we then down to numbered days?

January spares no space for bleeding hearts, as freshers free the neuron decays;

Let faces be veiled, and voices but heard in verses of December poetry,

And we'll be mavericks once done with the laughs - here's to a final memory.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

Wonderful poetry shared my friend.
"Oh bewitching nostalgia for present, are we then down to numbered days?
January spares no space for bleeding hearts, as freshers free the neuron decays;
Let faces be veiled, and voices only heard in verses of December poetry;
And we'll be mavericks once done with the laughs, here's to a final memory."
The above lines stood out to me. I liked your flow of thoughts leading to the proper ending. Thank you Swagato for sharing the outstanding poetry.
Coyote