Final resting place
Brick by brick I built my walls,
despite fires raging,
I preserved paths that connected
bridges between our breathless existence.
Now that my heartbeats
have reached a dead end street,
let me rest my jaded head
upon your chest -
for fate has foretold it as my abode to forever sleep.
I was the melatonin to your insomnia,
you the immunity to internal inflictions.
If only I could have drank your infatuation,
as a remedy for my antagonising agony.
Poetry was only a provisional potion,
yet it distracted from all negative notions.
We weaved a blanket of words,
where you adored the moon in nocturnal notoriety,
whilst I portrayed the beauty of sunrise in your eyes.
I guess nothing illuminates forever.
If this was my last love poem,
would you forgive my silence?
Would you still bless me in your verses,
or let my memories wither
like the petals your promised
to bloom in our poetic garden?
Would I be your last metaphor,
in your final spill of tears?
Or would you reveal to the world,
the greatest unfinished love story.
In manipulation of manifestation,
I was your willing wordsmith,
protecting you with my shield of sanity -
in the hope I slayed every demon who desired you.
If it was a crime to love you,
then I was content as a criminal,
awaiting my destiny on death row.
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