A HEART INSPIRED

What will we do at the end of time. When words and pages are no longer yours, no longer mine? Hair is of midnight, eyes are of sea-glass. Greener than any depth, most dazzling, you've ever seen. She writes and she reads the pages and every word in between. Heart worn on the outside of her chest. The words are like morsels of nourishment to our souls. Without them our very breath would be lost. So bring us each letter all flaxen in gold, sprinkled and brazen, there's so much more to behold. Mysterious and driven, by the hearts yearning to say. All that is in us all that wants to escape. Fear has no boundaries and damn the beguiled. For the pages beneath the pen each one is compiled. Is but a vessel for the ship that has sailed. The journey, it may be long and ragged. But the bleeding of pages is the cure for the heart turned to ash. Release my dying sweet splendor of rhyme. Love me dearly, my poem my crime. ~ For my sweet Meggy {Valentina Silver©️}

Forty years have passed. The ache is new. Yet Familiar. Its tugging a strange comfort. Happiness has never made its nest, never quite settled in. You know why. Yet you choose oblivion. Its safer you know. Than the reality. You wait for the phone to ring. For an invitation. You sit alone. And wonder how your life turned out this way. Such a fool. An arrogant sod. The generations filling in. Impressive in numbers. You don't know them. You couldn't possibly. Why oh why, you ask again and again. The ego. A false friend. A bitter enemy. You cling to it. Its all you've got. In the bitter end. You quarrel with yourself. Blame yourself. Despise yourself. Forty years have passed. Forty years ago. The pain you caused. Devastation and turmoil. Such a hollow aching. Bitterness you bore. And selfishness you knew. The lonely won out. And you bailed. A lost child. Hurt. So hurt. Could not see past the longing. Could not see all the pain you were causing. For the mere chance at this ha

She has forgotten and can't seem to recall. It was  but a dream. After all. She awoke but didn't rise. To seize the day before her. So it shall lay in wait. For the evidence one must consider. The heat was flush and misty dawn raw. Sensing the thrill but not the fall. Lest the bliss cease and the joy escape. Memories are dust beneath her faith. Secrets be damned and the truth be told. For who should stand and be so bold. The artist creates illusions and plants the seed. But the heart is cold and driven by greed. Bring to me all that is mine. Declares the one who draws the line. Yet the truth is simpler and much sweeter than this. But forgoing the remedy leaves a fool remiss. It's not in the desire and its not in the want. See the mortals who so easily flaunt. Its in the tender heart and its in the truth. Test it and see. Its there and its proof. Its always been and always will be. Alive and well. An age old thing. For all of eternity and all