Poem -

Melancholy Trees and Lost Memories

Melancholy Trees and Lost Memories

"How fast must time pass leaving the heart, broken, and empty as glass."
I confidently said to the cracked moon, my shirt stinking of stale perfume and stains of whiskey still plastered on my breath, trying to numb some kind of pain and I'm not quite sure from where it came, or if I brought it on with mankinds stone of right and wrong.
How quickly must my morning pass for the words of my mother to be felt at last, I'm saddened and filled with sorrow on the marble floor, smoking a cigarette in memory of graves filled with regret.

In the puddles of lives that have changed in a manner which hammered the world onto the eyelids of the rain taking apart the character and crying for a name, leaving behind a feeling so strange.
A nostalgia which at times fuels the rage of my slumbering love, how could I have blinked in the face of a beautiful spring, how could I have let go of your hand when I promised to stay and offer care as endless as space, I fused my worry with anxiety and ran for the light at the end of the tunnel never thinking of the faces drenched in sunlight which I hurt or misplaced.

Melancholy jumps from the flaps of the leaves on an afternoon that should wonder with ease and fly towards the knees of the mountains which once harbored fountains and there, there, my sweet lovely angel I felt the electric nature of change, I saw it form then rearrange but it never gave birth to anything which was not already written, it never ceased light for hero nor villan but instead just flowed in a way that collapsed into the waves of the immortal.
It was instilled in the very fabric of life so lifeless I lay still on my marble floor, now with only ash and dried tears, how much I miss youth and it's erratic fear.

I got up nonetheless and opened my door to get dressed, for the wind of all that has been should not take over the train that waits for you in grace and in sin.
Let's pretend that we're still children in the corners of cities and their quiet seasons, let me break the songbirds hum and sing for him instead, let me come alive in the depths of a million unaltered seas, please, please let me come alive in the dance of the trees.
The praises of the lost shall not be my eternal bliss of blood trapped in frost,
I mustn't be in state of restlessness for my wilderness is that of the gods and my film is rolling against all odds, I have and I shall again, conquer the world and be, to all, a friend.