Sunday, 17 January 2016

Wild Lavenders // Poetry


I want to breathe through you,
Not because I’m struggling for air
But because your candour fills my lungs
With fresh lavenders; the wild kind
That refuse to be tamed.
I begin to crave eternity
And your electric eyes fool me
Into believing that you can give it.

I want to breathe through you,
Not because I’m incomplete
But because my languid emotions
Dream of finally setting sail.
I begin to crave your hand guiding mine
As I decorate the sky with graffiti;
The colours bleeding, intensifying,
Weaving between yours.

We smile and we breathe, together,
But you leave and I stay with
Nothing but fleeting glimpses
Caught In rushing corridors.
I feel myself shying from those bright
Electric eyes that no longer fool me,
Yet the scent of fresh lavender lingers;
The wild, untameable kind.


It was strange, and almost disorientating, to only realise after the metaphoric ink had dried that this was written for him. This is a poem about human curiosity and understanding, but it’s also a poem for the stranger who made me feel careless and invincible, who showed me that I should never tame my wild lavenders.


{Photo source: here}

Friday, 1 January 2016

1st January 2016


The mundane ambience of the past couple of weeks had rendered a poignant ache to reside within the core of my anatomy. My sore eyes woke at 12:00pm after finally entering sedation at 3am the previous night; a static routine as of late. I wrapped myself in copious layers and kissed the rim of mugs, fulfilling my craving for warmth as papery flecks of skin peeled from my lips. I pushed through wintry evenings – the insufferable gloom overhanging as a relentless downpour slapped the ground below in violent gestures.

The repetitive nature of the holidays had built a despondent mask upon the calm composure that once existed. The unwavering determination that I held before dispersed as unread literature piled up and unfinished essays stared back at me, pleading for some form of energy to find its way back into my limbs. My apathy was potent and frequently seeped through the indents of my weary bones. Every possible sense of clarity became distant.

2015 is gently decaying: A disposition of fluctuating emotion.

And so I sit and wait for the starless canvas of the night sky to crack, to release itself from the shackles of anguish, allowing the tender rays of light to make their grand appearance and fill me with purpose once again.

I’d be lying if I said I were ready for the New Year that looms ahead. I’m not even slightly prepared. And perhaps the ache will cease to ever subside, and a great fraction of the next 365 days will be spent in reclusive cynicism. Or maybe it won’t, and 2016 will be a year of soul-relieving progression.

But I’m going to disregard these polarising outcomes, because there’s an abundance of meanders that this year could potentially pursue, and I strongly believe that there is comfort in ephemeral chaos. So for me, to have the power to embrace it, would be more than enough.  

{Photo source: Nabsticle}