Clouds
There are clouds that passeven on the brightest days
when dreams are whipped
like strands of hair
slashing at your face
the sting of unshed tears
and oh that heavy weight of pain
as an inner soul bends
gut wrenching that all
you can do is capitulate
as agony engulfs,
breath is a torture
thoughts fly unfettered and free
that you so long to flee
return watch the white butterfly
float, buffeted by a breeze,
just to rise from the dead
leave the corpse of you behind
lying in that antiseptic room
its lingering aroma haunting.
You want to taste the sea
inhale that scent of salt,
roll it over your tongue,
Imbibe of the earth
fresh mown grass,
the fragile one day bloom.
You are that chignon
each pin removed.
Whisper
I am apple to your blossom
that autumn wail
as leaves collect in corners
to be swept, disintegrating
their veins like skeletons
left too long in sun to bleach.
Oh to be a cloud that passes
on a still, unblemished sky.
Poetry by Elle
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Written on 2017-03-04 at 19:27
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