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Winter's Monologue

Poetry By: November
Romance



A poem about feeling all is lost.


Submitted:Aug 10, 2007    Reads: 438    Comments: 5    Likes: 1   


Winter's Monologue

This Autumn's come and been,
do I welcome Winter's cold?
At barely tender seventeen,
Christ! I'm feeling old.

I've wasted every moment,
I've slaughtered every dove,
the lie is spreading from the mirror,
"You are far too old for love."

I remember every word she said,
I recall every breath
she took from me, this cold
is not of Winter but of Death.

And now I wonder
would things be any different

If looking back at what I've seen,
I'd seen just what I could have been,

If I'd lived my life as though my hair were on fire,
If I'd lived my life at all,

If I'd said the words I never said,
And chased the butterflies from dreams I never chased,

If I'd told her the truth,
that she was the best thing I've ever known.
(If I was the best kept secret in her heart,
I hope she still looks when she's alone)


If things were that different, do you think I'd say
"Come what may"
or would I still eat wisely, exercise,
and die anyway?

(How ironic it is that I wrote these words
�as nothing more than a lyrical lie,
And now they're all true
I cross my heart and hope to die.

However,
there is one thing I did not expect:
Neither the kings horses nor the king's men
have been sent to put my heart back together again,
because to me it does not feel broken,
- Nor as though she keeps it somewhere
with all the letters that I wrote -
it's both dissolving in my stomach,
and lodged firmly in my throat
[For the sake of this girl's happiness,
I hope she never reads this note]

And when my heart does restrict my breathing,
Holding my breath half to death,
I hear this most sadistic sound,
a sonic vision of the future,
a heart that has been bound,
being torn in two by kissing lips
�- kissing hips if I feel bold-
like lines that web through this, a heart of aching cold.)

Does she remember the night her heart skipped a beat?
or am I nothing more now than insomniatic meat?

There's a reason he says it will all be alright,
and why you won't dream of him tonight,
like how your and my hands are a perfect fit,
how I pray you'd still kill for this [even if only a little bit]

I remember the youth of Autumn,
warmth that yields no pain,
and whilst I can't turn back the clock,
can I wind it up again?

Alas.
I know.
It's gone.
Too late.
And my regrets weren't worth the wait.





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