Cinders To Ash – It’s Cold In Here.

She stood hair of scarlet
a beacon on that lonely hillside.
Beneath the tilt of clouds,
more black than grey.
Silent, void in all, her qualities.
Her derelict stance
made me stop – to glance.
In openness
I appealed
If one falls; if
What then?

Her body faltered –
China pale, descending petals
kissing cold, the granite of whitest
white.
Who will light me a candle
on this barren night?
For in this bittersweet reek of living alone
I am to come undone.
My deceits have left me all mislaid
I battled hard those disliked
tendrils of ache.
Willed to purge them with my bile
Yet– should I hold my self
in tainted censure –

Are men not born ill-fated; weak
so open to persuasion.
Should, lacklustre climates;
gather about our feet.
Then surely, we can seek out
that warmth, so absent from the hearth.
May, well my love, have blazed
her hair of red.
Alas, for me; it never seemed
to warm our bed…

Poppy ~xx~

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s