Needle and Thread

Is poetry the ink of the soul,

the crumpled pages of my shattered heart?

Is love a broken ATM,

with currency dispensed as freely as the moonlight?

Are borrowed pieces of yesterday

ever loaned without expectation,

though life has been a subliminal temptation,

a wild and weathered infestation,

an alluring piñata of papier-mâché

crushed so many times before?

Barking tongues

sleeping dogs

silence crashing to the floor,

leaving words to tell the tale.

Each sunrise a chapter

revised and unveiled.

I know love can be a crumpled page

carelessly tossed into the bin.

No qualms, no regrets,

I’ve heard it said,

time may forgive,

but it never forgets.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned —

the fire is hot,

and the flame,

it will burn.

I’ve endured sutures and stitches

from a heart

traveled, unraveled and torn.

We once played like children in the gentle pouring rain

in brimming puddles without galoshes

or umbrella,

running wild

singing a cappella,

as day torched the night and north winds blew,

like weeds we grew.

Still I wonder —

when will we promise

not

to break or bend

those tender stems of the heart

once again

when we kiss

stitch by stitch

under the seductive moon?

Does the unraveled sky seem torn and unfed?

Where did we hide that needle and thread?

Credit: Connie Song 2024. All Rights Reserved.