The moon's apricity

Time will heal them — I thought,

They'll come and go,

Visit my grave with flowers bought,

Then they would leave me alone;

Then why is it they still weep?

My sister lingers to scream,

Mom has a shirt she keeps,

The neighbour's cat no longer beams;

The rain would wash away grief,

Pick apart saddened memories,

I left my father no worthy relief,

I thought I was to free him of worries;

I lay in cold proven wrong,

For I still feel their seeping salt,

Time can't heal sorrowed songs,

It was all just my naivety's fault.

I float amidst miles of nothing, The leaves have long fallen, Sometimes I look for something, Maybe simple pollen's kin;

The salt has climbed my cells, Cork screams with each drag, Most nights I miss your tells, Now the waves hit in snags;

Birds have rested on my branches, Long flights that left them drained, I have become respite to their launches, Even if my skin crumbles all grained;

I thought I'd see you unfurl, Get to feel your roots breathe, Watch the green slowly uncurl, I didn't want to drown in lonely seethe;

There were many, To look in light, Alone are barely any, Preached their holy might;

Skin sits parched, Leathered as hope lasts, Time sits gently arched, As they drift in peaceful fasts;

Hungry for the unseen, Gravel to them — is life, Eyes water as they glean, Praise of skies showering strife;

I stand in scent of wrong,

Drifting in what's gone,

Torn lay—where I belong,

Am I even allowed to mourn?

A smile sits past my guilt,

Washed away blood—not your grin,

Scattered sits what I had built,

It feels like the cell is sonorous tin;

The tighter my fingers held,

Further your eyes dipped,

White ash to skin was meld,

Nothing I could have gripped;

Now my hands are tied,

Behind bars I sink and wait,

They all tell me you died,

But I won't just accept fate;

When there is no longer this metal,

I will dig all those six feet,

You won't return in mere petals,

I will give my heart for yours to beat;

I wish I were heartless — Dear God,

I wish my eyes would not be wet,

I wish my fingers would not tremble,

I wish — Great Lord — that I did not feel;

It must be a curse of mine,

That you bestowed upon my soul,

Some previous life spent carelessly,

Now I pay in cracks of my chest;

If the world was to be cruel,

Then you should not have made me as such,

Every tear around me brings along my own,

Would you believe I'd rather suffer than watch?

Would you bless me,

With pain, with betrayal, with bloodstains,

As long as my eyes don't burn for misery of others,

As long as my people forget my ashes?

I sit in closed drawers,

Beneath ones that shine,

I don't have pretty flowers,

Or sophisticated designs;

Pushed around and forgotten,

Dimming lustre patterns,

Uncherished I have gotten,

Yet — for maybes I yearn;

One day — perhaps,

They will look past the pretty,

Trace my dents like maps,

Find something other than pity;

And then I too will scoop,

With this old metal body,

Spoonfuls of hot soup,

I will be more than just shoddy.

Painted ceramics perched,

On the shelves untouched,

Humming at lack of pour,

Faint lipstick sits smutched;

Intricate patterns in gold,

Handle about a little worn,

Air hollow inside the space,

The loss of lips it mourns;

The mark of pink lay faded,

Glimpses of the past teas,

It sits too still on the wood,

Baked clay far from ease;

Beauty invited eyes of many,

Coffee brewed with fancy frothers,

Cherished for its sturdy bake,

It now belonged to lips of others;

But the barely there lip stain,

Sits on the rim still unfazed,

Many came to drink from,

Most always left amazed;

The ceramic cup vesseled,

For many to use and care,

Though it served it's purpose,

The love for those lips was never to share;

On my porch, In near straight lines, Each of your boots, Lay covered in vines;

I stare too long, At half untied lace, Wishing you'd appear, To put them back in place;

They lay too still, By the wooden door, Each Sole buried deep, In Punishment of no more;

Thank you so much🪻

Regrets have only taught me one lesson—that regrets teach us nothing.

They linger, feed on every new learning

The Darkest of nights, Through the wind's bites, The rain falls with patters, It keeps safe all that matters;

The scorching sun's rays, Dust motes clinging to days, Laughter inside is cradled, It protects without being fabled;

The gushes of gale, Winter mornings coloured pale, Holding together the four walls, Secure from the world's brawls;

The house's green tin roof, People inside smile aloof, Of the storms the metal fights, They hang from it—fairy lights;

The tin ceiling overhead, With silent strength it is spread, It indeed is much like you—Dad, Resilience and sagacity clad

Poems sang his thoughts, breath tied in wet knots, Meter set just right, The rhythm almost always tight;

He carried voices that bled, Wrote in ink that shed, Death was a gift in his pages, It wasn't a matter of wages;

In mirrors he saw devils, Maybe all he wanted was to rebel, He hid his wounds in words, Saw freedom in flights of birds;

It can so happen to be true, He was one of the monster's crew, But—the mind condones mirages, It makes us believe it's false collages;

The earth demanded you, Far more than my needs, The florets mindfully grew, Sparing your name of the weeds;

I held your skin like mine, Tears seeped in your cold, But it loved you more—the grime, For its embrace was forever bold;

I begged and held—grasped, Breathed your name like air, But the loam had already rasped, Louder than what was fair;

You tell me I belong, That life will get along, The tea cools off in steam, My bed lies made—all clean;

Warm breads grace hands, Opportunity floods my glands, One too many blankets, Life—a served banquet;

Love served consistent and hot, For me to all but blot, Yet I visit these old pages, Pen for embrace like wages;