FORGOTTEN HIGHWAY

Posted in My Poetry with tags , , , on April 4, 2015 by Plathinson

On wide pavement,
a couple of melancholic footprints
watching all others fading
into existence.

Bridges and alleys were stripped off
of what they were here for—
Echoes and inscriptions were gone
with you.

Sometimes I wondered if
you had ever set foot into this place.
A dream seemed more real
than you being here once.

No one stopped
at red lights anymore
except for cobwebs and dusts
in those streetlamps.

© Gheeneil

Advertisements

A MELANCHOLIC MUSING

Posted in My Poetry with tags , , , on July 9, 2019 by Plathinson

You smell
of sleep and tears
at midnight
when everyone else speaks
of infinite silence,
making beautiful corpses—
so quiet,
so dull,
so cold;
yet, you cannot tell
which of you is
colder,
duller,
and most immobile.
To be in the arms
of night alone
is bravest
for solitude does sting
a little.
You know,
your sadness can be felt
from far away,
across the sea
and over the mountains
where trees remain so still
and the ocean forbids waves
to tease the shore.

© Gheeneil

THE LIGHTNING

Posted in My Poetry with tags , , , on April 22, 2019 by Plathinson

The lightning tells all,
if you know it well enough.
Wherever the wind takes the dust to
remains a blind man’s labyrinth.
To speak of light is to be quiet,
and whatever is shallow is too loud.

© Gheeneil

THE WIND

Posted in My Poetry with tags , , , on April 12, 2019 by Plathinson

You whir through strands,
entangling locks of hair
I carefully brush
a hundred times over.

Sometimes I loathe
how playful you are.

I remember those dandelions
you often told a classic tale to
I’ve never once caught
a handful of you.

When those gentle hums
whisper sweets
I stop craving in years,
please be still.

© Gheeneil

THE TORMENTS OF BEING READ TO

Posted in My Poetry with tags , , , on March 26, 2019 by Plathinson

Into the memory
of a septuagenarian,
your epistolary voice tiptoes
along legendary halls
that are long hushed
by crickets and cobwebs.
When no one speaks
to this squeaky floor anymore,
your cautious footfalls
can hurt so much.
Every time when darkness falls,
you resemble the sound
silence makes.

© Gheeneil

THE INTERPRETER

Posted in My Poetry with tags , , , on February 18, 2019 by Plathinson

You were behind
the lectern, again,
for a soliloquy.
And I, in the front pew—
the most coveted seat
to catching every wisp
of breath.

You started soft,
slowly sewing
all the words together
into a never ending line
and made every single space
out of place.
Your voice: an empty air
that weighed tons.

Listen: You could’ve said nothing,
and I would’ve interpreted it
same way.

© Gheeneil

SANS FOOTPRINTS

Posted in My Poetry with tags , , , on January 26, 2019 by Plathinson

Feet into the mud,
squeezing out
every little raindrop
because years are fragile
and this soil, frigid.
Each grimy toe kisses
all sorts of dirt—
sweat and earth.
Albeit the number
of falling grains,
dust remains foreign to skin.
I could only gaze
at my weary sole.
Time hasn’t aged at all;
neither have I.

© Gheeneil

THE ANNIVERSARY TOAST

Posted in My Poetry with tags , , , on November 15, 2018 by Plathinson

For as long
as I remember
the brightest color of time,
I’ll hold a memory feast,
taking you back when
we started meeting.

I’ll dust off
all the years
that piled up,
that made you foreign
to footprints.

Our lullaby I’ll sing,
though my voice
hardly ever forms
the words now.

© Gheeneil