On the cliff
Of life
I teeter with
The decision
To end it
All forever
Living without you…
An impossible
Feat that I
Cannot accomplish
Even if it
Would make
You smile brightly
I wish to
Gambol and
Be with you
But fear
Anchors my soul
And cowardice
Chokes my fragile
Resolve, beau
Would you forgive
Your soulmate
For such horrid
Desires and
Repugnant transgressions evermore?
Rather than live
The afterlife
Or maybe the
Next life
Appeals to me
In my
Dreams and within
The waking
Realm truth fattens
The incorrigible
Infinite sorrow plaguing
My heart
Due to your
Unfair absence, resplendence
But still
The words do
The feelings
No justice, love
For I
Yearn for you
Like a
Babe to his
Mother’s teat
Yet you uphold
Insurmountable importance!
We are meant.
Hollowness fancies my
Mind and
Berates my emotions
I am
Horrendously incomplete without
My prince
Doves flock around
Our future
Or at least
I imagine
The crows painted
Like heaven
Thoughts afford momentary
Your embrace awarded
Sublimity and
Eternal, glorious bliss
Snatched from
My codling arms
Above you
Frolic gleefully about
Calm waters
In which you
So verily
Deserve, my merman
Nevertheless, Cupid
I need you…
About the Creator
Sir Contra
Read to understand and you will be left bewildered. Read to interpret and you will become a sage.
Check out my book: The Book of Surreal Sadness. Available on Barnes and Noble digitally and physically, and on Amazon digitally.
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also pledge your support or give them a one-off tip, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Keep reading
More stories from Sir Contra and writers in Poets and other communities.
Far…Farther
What drug will release me from this endless suffering? What have I done to deserve it? Was I a heinous villain in my past lives? Or are my self-perceived good acts actually abruptly atrocious ones? On my phone I see the face of death. He stares coldly at me as I write. His chin has decayed wrinkles and his mouth is lipless. His eyes are hidden behind a black veil and white letters. His neck is robust and I can see the strength in his shoulders. His impression is smudged on my phone’s screen. It would seem my fingers know what I truly desire. But again I ask, what drug will release me from this endless suffering?
By Sir Contraabout a year ago in Poets
His Haibun
He does not like poetry; I write it anyway and do not tell him. It's true his face is not a poet's face. It is round and open, youthful; too apt to be compared to the sun. His nose is neat. It is impossible to imagine him smoking a cigarette, terse, full of cheekbones and tension. His warmth burns my fingertips. I am here for his fascinating body, the haphazard freckles I touch one by one; he is here for my eyes, just my eyes. A sunbeam sneaks through the curtains and pierces us both, sizzling the spices of his skin. I inhale and wrap myself in him. He kisses my eyes.
By TheSpinstress6 days ago in Poets
Comments (3)
nice
good
Very strong poetry