He Wore A Heart of Orange Upon His Sleeve

She wore the yellow in her lace

Indoctrinated by the ever changing faces

That imbued her mother, as she grew-

Lacking all pigmentation, if not Blue

He wore the dust of heralds

Adhering its pink upon his heart,

Of which, since that fated dawn, he could only sing of her in carols

A soundtrack to love’s play, and Sisyphus became his part

She danced the reddest predilection

Enraptured by his persistent, amorous intent

Yet engrained are the evils, alive in her tapestries’ reflection

She damns affection, for the avarice of hesitance

Many stanza’s later…the spectrum’s cycle still would spin

She blankets herself in the blackest blur

Aged now, she has grown, but his pursuits have since died

And the clocks had sealed their lips, once apathy’s languor flecked eye,

If only she’d known, if not for decline, he’d still move boulders for her 

Well another Tuesday is upon us, and with it comes another week of wonderful and brilliant poetry over at D'verse.  This week we're all in for a treat, as one of my favorite poets, Tash, will be hosting Open Link Night.  Anyone who enjoys reading some great original poetry should be sure to check it out, and while you're there, perhaps you'll feel the urge to share a poem of your own.  Happy OLN!

A Fairy Tale Incomplete

I met her a day many Mays ago,

Storybook in structure yet storyboard in form,

Inkless pages from a fruitless vine,

She was flesh, she was pulp,

Sticky sweet, endorphins releasing tastefully,

A delicate recipe, with ingredients defining delicacy,

No brushstrokes necessary, this image solves the easel

Natural shades and brilliant tones,

 Heart rates spike peering each trace the prisms spawn,

So subtle the hue one barely takes the time,

To pause would be to ingest,

 The rhythmic flavor the artist so designed,

Like many others I feigned approach,

As confidence trembled from voice to throat,

 A citric splash philosophy soured any optimism,

Any chance, left hollow; betrayed of opportunity,

To allow a moment, an attempt at thoughtful unknotting,

I do not know what became of her,

Often I dream of what could have been,

Perhaps someday, some other time,

I’d like to pretend that chance I’ll one day get,

I like to think she too regrets our time not spent