Electrifying Poetry Collection
#Poetry #Odes #LoveSongs
A #MustRead for anyone who has ever experienced love, pain, defeat, or joy...
- An International Book Awards Finalist -
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The Hook - {Poem Excerpt}
is a mélange of the elements of charm,
a yawn away from the steady shivers lying
beyond
At dusk, a wistful stroll along eclectic
memoried boulevards,
with echoes of church bells in tow
unveils a canny sense of things
A nostalgic glimpse of old things,
old people, old places,
bequeathing their secrets unreservedly,
at the end of a tacky, melancholic day
It is autumn in Florence…
even the blind can tell,
for a whiff of that dry Tuscan air,
disguised as a romantic breath on the cheek
now wafts soothingly, alluringly,
like the caressing whisper of a lover at
dawn
The gaiety, the gossip,
the veritable quality of the decline of
the year,
all of it a mishmash of this season of
gloom,
and caught in the midst of it, you and me,
‘cause in our souls, a conscious dread had
sprung
even a tot can tell
from the inexorable surge of parched
foliage and withering flora
now palpable like a beauty queen wilting
with the passage of time
as an impotent sun looms
with a staggering degree of poetic frenzy,
like a bad omen
over that little piazza that I call lair and
you call refuge
Jaded, like the dream that steered us here
nadir, like our possibilities, and poised
to snap,
like the fragile thread holding our sanity
together
It is autumn in Florence…
even the inebriated can tell,
for the Tuscan sky is daubed with
gray-hued awnings
a kaleidoscope of waning streaks,
epitomizing
the artistic finesse of the heavens,
a subtle connotation, a riveting verity
that
four times a year the seasons change
without fail,
that now leaves must turn sallow and
plummet, and flowers must wither
And with them, everything except us,
must leap beyond their prime
It is autumn in Florence…
from that lingering mystery of vitality
and lethargy,
so exquisite, so sophisticated
which no longer obscures the daunting haze
that strains the air
In the flush and bloom of early womanhood,
you …
radiant like a new moon on a starlit night
cunningly oblivious of the secrets of my
tears
paying no heed to the disheartening dread
that swathes me,
for in this season, with every leaf that
falls,
and every flower that withers, your days
are numbered
It is autumn in Florence…
even an obtuse can tell,
from the stunning sight of Fiesole
transformed into violet by the magic of twilight
And now, here we are—you and me—ensnared by a dream
unraveled by a foe, invincible and vile
like injured rebels ferried home to roost
Desolate hands too volatile to reach
ardent eyes too doleful to watch
as your frailty eats you up with delicious
cruelty
the way a vulture does a prey
causing every fantasy within the limits of
our amorous deeds
to evaporate, along with the last breath
in your lungs
even dreamers can tell, for
the vestiges these bleak nights amass were once stacks
of hope
on which now abide memories undimmed
A better friend than you life never gave
you were the bloom that autumn failed to erode
the warmth that winter couldn’t pinch from me
the wind that summer could not smother
the flare that’ll forever be my spring
But more than all this, my love,
You were life’s
Greatest gift
To
Me.
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