You wrote me down like a color of voices that never faltered but you chose to rock the chaser as a player of words rather than getting into my own head but I loved how I could wake up out of bed after a dream of you, but now I am pursuing a life out of a dream, but you still hold the shelter that was in my heart until all I could do was feel like I was coming down without a chase, and then you moved my dreams like a life of a chess piece, where the game of life was not even close to being over until we could say check mate and rose petals. You wrote me down like I knew the story wasn’t even over, but you closed the book without even giving me an answer, to the choices that later in life I knew that we both had to make but you chose to live a reality that was more than a dream but yet you had only opened up to me inside of a dream that could never leave me, but began to pull inside of the waters that hit me with the sand, and then it was the fall of the month of september before it became the last fall of the leaves before the morning of october. The last of the start of the fall, went into the stories of love.
The love of the life that never crossed over,
where the letters she wrote,
was the love she expressed in just one snap of a finger,
and the words ran through her like a midnight of a silent voice clock.
The gilded envelope of roses
The gilded envelope of roses,
where letters don’t just write themselves,
but the words become the letter of the rose petals,
where every word of the story,
was like the paragraphs of the notebook,
being read back to me,
in the future.
The midnight of roses
The midnight of roses,
where the letters of the stems,
only wrote the love,
that started the letters,
and wrote the midnight of roses.
The flowers of the petals,
That only started off as midnight hours,
But roses kept the silence,
As a key,
And then the roses,
Where the midnight,
Became the hours of the clock at a time.