Poetry

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ᯓ★ ⋆˙⟡ 📃 ✎ᝰ .𖥔 ݁ ˖

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Gather not only what fills the hands,
But what enriches the soul. For the richest lives are measured By what remains when all else is gone.

The moon need not chase the sea,
Nor flowers long for spring.
What's written blooms in its own time,
As birds are born to sing.
The finest tales are never rushed,
They unfold as they were meant.

Our chapter was only three pages long, was it?
In those pages, I felt like I won and that there is some loss in that win.
Even my smile made me wonder in pain.
My breath got stuck in restlessness.
The end of our story made me finally breathe.
Was the fire in our hearts real?
Maybe it was just an imagination.
So now the win is yours, bedardeya.

You held my book on a Tuesday
Read my pages then told me to stay
Except you read them upside down
“It doesn’t make sense” so in ink, I drown

So you picked a template from your past
Wrapped me in it like a cast
Painted me into what you once knew
Your confirmation bias so it fit like a shoe

My voice lost in the sea of your denial
The moment passed us like a missile
Morse code under the dial
I didn’t know I was under trial

CHILE!

I was a green screen to play your script
Act to act line by line beneath encrypt
A locked mechanism no room for grey area
Getting whiplash from all this hysteria

So now we sit in the void of stillness
Frequency scrambled, static and a mess
Do not open Schrodinger’s box to see
At least, unopened, there’s a chance you’ll find me.

FA