I left some sweet peas on the counter,
When I left early that morning.
I admired their delicate petals,
I did not receive their warning.
Sweet peas symbolise goodbyes,
They are used to bid one adieu.
It must have been an omen,
For I never returned to you.
She desperately tries to console her friend,
Though they can’t find the strength to fight any more.
Together, they once rose, but it will soon end.
Where is the man who commenced this tragic war?
Perhaps he is safer to be left behind.
At least while the pain is furiously raw.
She is broken now, all alone and confined.
The image in her head, one she can’t evade,
Resides in every corner of her mind.
When she sleeps, it replays, the night she’s betrayed.
Her sidekick, the friendship, ripped out from the core.
Pounding icicles crashed down on her parade.
Image credit: pixabay.com
In response to dVerse’s triplet challenge found here
My puppet master let go of the strings, granting me freedom, but I didn’t know where to run to, or whether to even run at all.
Instead, I cowered in a corner, until I could gather enough strength to breathe steadily.
I must become my own puppet master, but I will always hold my strings tight.
A longer extract can be found here
Image credit: Claudio Schwarz via Unsplash
In response to Only 100 Words: Three Line Tales #227 found here
Torn apart by spreading fire,
Only, it was your ignition.
I almost ignored suspicion,
But I saw how you’d conspire,
You reckless, pathetic liar.
Falsehoods only bred more hatred.
You ask why we’re separated,
As if it was my decision,
And not your carving incision.
A divide which you created.
Image credit: Pixabay.com
In response to Ronovan Writes Décima Poetry Challenge Prompt No. 8 found here
We are parched of hope.
Two tulips in spring.
Lost in a field of poppies,
So wild, and unforgiving.
I falter, I wither,
In emotional turmoil.
I pine for your company,
Though anchored to the soil.
Where’s my refuge, my nursery?
I’m a solitary flower,
Come and quench my thirst,
With all the love I can devour.
I seek hope by the water,
Clear as a looking glass,
It reflects the damage of our parting.
When will this menace pass?
Oh, won’t you come and find me?
My strength, you can restore.
Let your touch console me.
You are still worth waiting for.
In response to the Paint Chip Poetry Prompt #21 found here
There is no need to sever the atmosphere,
Which lingers like smog, between you.
Instead, swallow the bitter taste of fury,
Or let it lie stagnant in your heart, festering.
It will only grow tough, unshakable layers,
As it will not disintegrate.
Is anything better left unsaid?
Why don’t you put these fumes to bed?
My puppet master let go of the strings.
My eyes absorbed the world with a fresh perspective. Everything seemed so unusual; less enticing and seeped in danger. I didn’t know where to run, or whether to run at all.
I tried tying knots in the strings, praying my puppet master would guide me once again.
The knots only frayed…
I cowered in a corner, until I could muster up enough strength to breathe steadily. Exploring had once been a dream of mine, but in my mind, it had been safe and wonderful.
I must now become my own puppet master, but I will always clutch the strings tight.
You weren’t the first. Perhaps if you were, it wouldn’t have cut me so deep. I wouldn’t have become so numb. I may have even found forgiveness.
So unexpectedly, you cut me out of your life, as though I was a jagged edge on a piece of paper. Something so easily discarded without a second thought.
For a while, I wondered, perhaps I did something wrong? I tried to make amends, but I meant so little to you that I wasn’t even worthy of a response. It dawned on me that I held no value in your eyes.
So when you walked back into my life, did you really expect me to have left that space inside my heart all warm, cosy, and welcoming?
I have grieved, I have found acceptance, and to save myself, I have lost my respect for you.
You weren’t the first.
You won’t be the last.
I will crumble. Won’t quite catch
My breath. Console me.
Her hands tremble as she traces the spiralling ridges of my fingertips with her delicate fingers. I try to catch her eye but she is avoidant. I pull my hand away and she stares into the space where my palm had been.
“What is it?” I ask, hesitantly.
She gathers herself together, wiping her hands on her robes. She clears her throat, but continues to avoid my gaze.
It then became imminently clear that my palms did not narrate tales of good fortune. No, that look was unequivocal. Only tragedy; a succession of disappointing events lay ahead, steeped in loss, fear, and grief.
It was too late to consider whether there is any truth hidden behind the creases on your hands. Continuing to walk the same paths with the same attitude became a risk. It was from this day that I carried gratitude with me wherever I went.
Gratitude reminds me that beneath the pressure of life lives a dormant element of peace. She had failed to find resilience at my fingertips.
An old post, rejigged for MindLoveMisery’s Fortune Teller Prompt found here