©This Flower in Your Garden Is Wilting
All Rights Reserved
The soft murmur of silence for even one day;
Ohh, how I love any lazy Sunday.
I am no longer held captive by the whims and
thoughts of you that still haunt these rooms,
your ever-changing iconic musings, and that
pneumatic ego of yours crowding my mind with
mangled morsels of a fallacious altruism
so you might nurse on my love like a greedy leech.
No longer can alluding memories linger
as if they are playing on a loop to keep me in
the grip of your script, that continuous dialogue
where you step monotonously into your narrative
to offer your own opinions on my still-life table
setting in front of the lover’s window of dreams.
And, no longer will your invasive, diamante words
break through like the psychedelic colors I once
glimpsed on sun-lit wings that embraced my heart;
I keep my coat collar tucked protectively
in the crook of my neck to insulate me from
the tangled frenzy of your quivering, breathy lies.
Ahh, the soft murmur of silence for even one day;
Ohh, how I love this lazy Sunday.
(painting: petals from my roots by brooke shaden)