Olive branch you extend,
And I reach out with my own.
But time keeps passing
And turns it into a dagger
That twists in the heart
As I open my hands to find nothing;
Perhaps it was all imagination.
Gentle breeze starts blowing,
And I dare to venture a smile.
The moment draws to a close
And turns it into a stormy gale
That tries to uproot all the faith
That I had built in my heart;
Perhaps it was all imagination.
I would ask for meanings, if allowed,
Of the many words which float
As messages in paper boats do;
There for all the world to see.
Because I am afraid now
Of falling off the cliff of difference
That seems to be present
Between what is said,
And what I understand.
These words seem miraculous
For they sound as if spoken
From the depths of my own agony
Instead of the writer’s;
Perhaps it is the same?
But the words are not mine
And I dare not claim anymore
To understand what was meant.
To ask for meanings,
I must sail my own boats
And that plan suffers
From the same flaw of interpretation.
But I must, of course,
For there exists now a vast ocean
And only a vessel made of feeble paper.
I can only hope
That the ocean does not engulf it.
Then again, the ocean is free after all.
Who knows if the boat was even headed my way.
Photo by Alex Wigan
The spark of smiles
And innocent longings
Turned to a flame;
Deep red and pure,
Of passion and warmth, hopes and dreams.
As she watched the flame turn to harsh fire
That threatened to cremate the very love
Which it was built from,
Panic washed over her,
And she stood paralyzed,
Forced to watch the destruction all night.
The fire had burned without restrictions
And brought to light all good and bad.
She now surveyed the landscape of the hearts
Where residue flames still burned around;
Bright stars in ebony dark.
The venom had flowed out due to heat;
In rivulets of poisonous green. And the love?
The memory of the pure, red flame
Danced in front of her eyes
And she saw the light igniting far off,
As crimson sun broke the night.
Gaining strength from warming rays
She promised aloud to burn just as bright
And sent her word to the fiery being
With messengers of both lands still stirring;
Phoenixes, after all, are reborn from the ashes.
The Writer's Nest 