Poet

- Adelise M. Cullens

‘From ‘‘Empty Rooms’‘ My poem journal. 

There was no conversation, they never shared their doubts, no only pillows and blankets were passed about. Though they drifted apart, the memories still bind as they bend. I tried, but we never reverted back. I folded the pages, turned them about a zillions time, still the black, inky, pages could not give me the answers. The light seems dimmer, the clouds a little softer, the birds sing in lower pitch than before, all because chapters come to a close, fade, then shut. Closed. Locked forever, where the content dances beautifully along the surface of a cloudy covered space. Twilight and afternoon school bells remain in protection, and may there be no sadness of farewell when I finally embark.

For others looked at her as if she was something no one would ever learn how to love, like a broken toy, rather than the skin along her back that made her human. However, that year, the winter brought with it something greater than snow and ice.

Soft on the neck of either dove’s love, beyond such a beauty, there hides a haze. A hazy patch of blacks and blues, where ashes lay, woke. The nightlight from an open candle sits in silence, trapped in lifeless motion, as it awaits the sun beyond its metal feet. A frozen door handle, covered with moldy moss, acts as the dawning memory of a lock intended to close, but always remains open, as a child’s laughter re-paints flowers along a bedroom barrier. A gold treasury of memories can not always sparkle, so rescue the strong, for the platinum treasure is not so easily manipulated by frost.