Daydreaming nihilist. Code maniac with a coffee addiction. Music, movie buff. High functioning alcoholic.
To the shore, through the door
Capital has you tied
It sits on you like a ghost
Don't leave home behind
The red lady dropped, she shriveled
She sits on the stairs, her sleep is trifle
Hibiscus dwarfs, knowing not you'll arrive
The babies find solace in the scent you leave us by
These chatters, the chiders, they rattle my frame
The sun was stolen as you walked away
The world for us, sharply estranged
Time has vastly slowed its pace
To the shore, many more, there's a silent cry
But my whispers, my love, don't reach you in time
Out of sight, out of mind, I assure you is a lie
I'm home, I miss you, don't leave us behind
© 2020 W h o I s I
Alan R Lancaster from Forest Gate, London E7, U K (ex-pat Yorkshire) on March 01, 2020:
Surprised I'm first - I thought there'd be a stack of comments...
This is a love poem, and I'm fairly prosaic (as you might've noticed from my writing), so why did I read it? It's trite, short and sad.
It's not 'nice' (that's a Victorian euphemism), it's surreal, and it's sharp.