bleeding words

@Uootem

The broken pieces of un-tempered artifacts of my heart,
fragments of the memories from a long past age,
have indelicately inscribed themselves there within,
wounding my spirit with multiple lacerations.
For when the emotions of lost-too-soon love
visit genuflected hands of present day wisdom,
I am granted credence to self-directed guidance,
and I realize that the letting go could bring such comfort.

A tenacious journey to the healing that forgetting could bring,
now compels me toward its investment of time,
the time that I seem to have such an abundance of,
since your absence provides me with nothing to do with time,
for time is the healer of emotions held close to the heart,
but do I possess the knowledge for regretting not this crossing?

Our minds have an inexhaustible propensity for memory
the displaying of image residue from once felt emotions
but these must be viewed guardedly with measured caution.
memory breeds emptiness, loneliness, destroys my faith in reality,
for I must be destined for denial of a love that I thought was so true
but I can not find my way... can not control my dreaming spirit.

Somewhere there exists promiscuous rainbows of such vivid color
that paint their unfulfilled promises across a cloudless skyscape
the storm of parting has passed, softening the pain of cruel disappointment
giving character to the strength to carry on with life and what is left,
propelling the evening stars to seductively scintillate their peace and harmony.
defining what is to be held with respect and what is to be released with contempt.

Emotions once discovered and apportioned in a place equated to heaven,
that are suffered during the time of avulsion, leads to the very path of hell
where a poet's inspiration and colorful blending of dreams are obscured
by haunting visions of despondency, discontentment, love lost forever more.
yet when his words are finally formed on the page into useful phrases...
the newfound cognition arouses the essence of that love and I encounter tranquillity.

For the poet can paint with his brush of emotion an acuity of love survived and renewed
completed with conciseness, without the question of why it is not so this day.
belief in that not to be believed, hope for the hopeless and dreaming of tomorrow
form the pallet of his art... granting life to the otherwise barren canvas of reality.
and the broken pieces of untempered artifacts of my heart are again pieced together,
memories from a long past age... become the adhesive that binds two hearts forever,
providing healing to the fragile and delicate feelings found there within,
my spirit survives the otherwise fatal lacerations... by bleeding words into his poems.