Precious Heart of a Past Life

Her skin was softer than a lullaby.
A tune so simple, I’d wished the words were my own.

That voice embraced a song, just so she could set it free.
As she sang, I had to hide the tears.

Her own hair, the color women pay for, left a strand on my coat.
It was part of what defined her beauty.

I insisted she was number one, no matter how sensitive she was.
Weak and selfish, my light shined through her voids.

She answered sweetly to the name only I could call her.
Then painted a picture of her reservations.

A new sense of complication emerged from the rose-colored trench.
And I pitied my intentions.

She came and went until something better became obvious.
I paved that road for which she danced.

Aromatic memories of her perfume are reduced to ash.
I now live my new book, where the words are my own.

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About dykestarr

I am a dedicated writer with a strong focus on relating to others, expressing my crazy mind, and keeping it real. I currently administer two blogs. www.dykefruit.wordpress.com www.nectarmadness.com

Posted on 04/23/2014, in Poetry & Musings and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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