The Memory

             .         The Memory

Daylight crawls on my window sill where I
left my eyes watching you.
Watching you across the endless fields of remembrance.

Dreaming of your memory, like a shadow walking
with me in the daylight. Then a silhouette of you in
the moonlight.

I hold you closely as if the memory of you cannot
be washed away.
As if you were like fibers to be forever quilted in my
destiny, not ever releasing me to be free.

I arise from my slumber to gaze over the sun melted
day. The sunlight glistens but carries not a aura of warmth.

I am cold inside.
You left me vacant.
The rose and the violet have died.

The rose and the violet will not see Spring.
the rose became the violet and the dream became
the rose.
Their beauty was our memory, we were they.

They say, the poet writes about peace and love
in romance.
And they say, the poet never find peace or love,
in romance.
Could this be true? Could this be really true?

It is now mid-year and I am wondering which
direction I should take.
I am in need, of God.

The pulse to my poetry is weak.
The pace is broken.
My poetry is thirsting like a plant which needs
water and sunlight.
Romance and love is the nature to its growth.

Romance is the life-blood of a poet.
And also the pain and memory with wings, regretfully,
is a part of its spawning.

The rose and violet, once again died.
Only to bring new petals, under a new sun, under
a new rain.

There is now a reverie.

Even though it was I  who fell in love, unintentionally.
My feelings for you were never divided.
You were so important to me.

And when you left, another dream crumbled.
It is so cold outside.

You were my creativity, my genius, my artistic melody
and the sweetness of my livelihood.

I have now become words.
I paint you in vast sunsets.
I put you inside rainbow houses.
I play you with violins.

You are, and you were, my expression.
I will always contain you to my memory.