Quietly rocks the garden swing, swaying in time with the autumn breeze. My eyes fixate on the seat, clutching to the chains, longing to see delicate fingers wrap around them once again.
The porch door clatters as the cat shoots through the hall, stealing my attention. As my eyes wander back to the garden swing, I see it lift up with a gust of wind, as if a child had leapt from it, up into the air, grasping for freedom.
Footsteps. Sodden footprints and bits of tarnished leaf are scattered through the kitchen, leading to the lounge. I follow the trail, forever hoping it will lead to you. I miss you so much that my heartache echoes into my every thought.
When I think of you, I find myself looking towards the sky. I wonder if you are looking down at me. Watching from above, with a pair of angelic wings. I believe that you are seeing heights only one stairway has ever led to.
I would prefer it if you were closer though. Thriving in flourishing meadows, behind the hills. I dream of watching you dance, as the playful breeze rattles the leaves of the oak trees. Just beyond the view from my window; your own hinterland.
Image credit: pixabay.com
In response to Sammi Cox’s Weekend Writing Prompt found here
I sat beside a charming stream,
On the trunk of a fallen tree.
A perfect place to peacefully
Reconsider my latest dream.
I admired the water gleam,
Watching courageous ripples ride,
Toward the rocks, and then collide,
Meandering around the bends.
It taught me changes are not ends,
So I can drift, no need to glide.
In response to Ronovan Writes Décima Poetry Challenge Prompt No. 7 found here
Why must the press always surmise?
Listen, please stop speculating.
Twisting words, manipulating.
I always see through your disguise,
You only ever publish lies.
Media steals all the glory,
Marching on your territory.
Selling words for personal gain,
No justice for the names you stain.
Severing my private story.
In response to Ronovan Writes’ Décima Challenge #11 found here
The guardian of secrets,
A keeper of the key.
I itch with anticipation,
When the King asks for me.
I know all there is to know,
About the steel chains and lock.
The titanium gate.
I oversee around the clock.
I still hope that one day,
I will see what’s inside!
One night, I hear footsteps,
So I have to decide.
I will take this chance!
So I linger, with intent.
If they find a way in,
I’ll catch a glimpse or a scent.
I pretend to be asleep,
As they cut the chain,
I stand up in awe,
His efforts were in vain.
Beyond the gate was… Nothing.
This must be a ploy.
Not a speck of gold,
Was I assigned the decoy?
Upon confronting the King,
Who had no emotion,
He said I’d failed the test,
There’s no hope of promotion.
In response to Mindlovemisery’s Sunday Writing Prompt found here
Come and take a seat beside me.
Add more kindling to the fireplace,
Clasp your hot cocoa, and listen.
I have a tale from a higher place.
We lay on the dark side of a purple mountain,
Majesties of the skies precipitated.
A torrential downpour, like a monsoon,
Forcing us to run, until deflated.
We thought we had found a safe place,
But we were in astounded disbelief,
To find a marginalised population,
Covered with a single fig leaf.
In response to the Paint Chip Poetry Prompt #24 found here
A gentle raindrop falls on my flushed cheek. At last, a cooling air to refresh this arid atmosphere. More water scatters, creating a pattern of dots on the patio. Each droplet fills the gaps.
My breathing slows as I immerse myself in this feeling of relief. My eyelids release a tear, which my chin catches briefly before it washes away.
The light pattering of rain gradually quickens in pace, as the droplets shatter against the conservatory roof, creating the sound of a tabla drum.
To follow, a downpour.
In response to Weekend Writing Prompt #158 found here
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.
Like stars in the night,
We shine, so bright, that we just
Burn out, wilt, and fade.
In response to Weekend Writing Prompt #157 found here