Sunday, February 22, 2015


And when the spell is gone,
When the magic of the moment vanishes,
And the heat, the ardor of going through the fire
Leaves nothing but the memory of embers,
When the river of tears dries up,
Leaving a bed cracked and arid,
When the season of the storm
Has turned into the parch of summer,
When the quake leaves no more tremors,
And the sea has calmed down
Except for the currents down in the deep,
When the piercing pain
Has become a numb ache,
When the anger and the hurt
Have been wiped out from a calloused heart,
By the need to heal and move on,
When the scab has disappeared
Leaving a hint of a scar,
Barely visible, except to the eyes of those who know.
When the desperation of threatened love
Turns back into the complacency of security,
When the chase is over,
And the battle ends with the compromise of a ceasefire,
When the fight fades into a sigh,
When the mundane sets in
And we once more become fixtures
Nailed, hitched, anchored,
Easy, willing, accessible property,
Clad in a house dress,
Wrapped in layers of everyday dust,
A nagging presence,
Been there, done that,
And ennui becomes a comfort,
And comfort becomes a curse,
What then?
What next?
Just waiting for the next upheaval,
Bracing for a storm
That we miss
But we wish would never come.