Friday, December 4, 2015

Our Beanstalk

There's a beanstalk so tall and torn.
It can touch the sun and tickle it's core
It reaches for sunsets, eclipses and more
It's strong, stubborn, and hard to explore.

This beanstalk was planted in front of my back door.
My back door is cracked, green, and poor.
It's peeling it's leaves, it's hurting, it's sore.
It needs a touch of love, of grandeur amour.

To climb it, you skip, jump, and soar
To grow it, you cry rivers, thousands you pour
To plant it, you realized this is not an after, but a before
You tell yourself, this isn't mine, never was, nor yours.

But then you cut the beanstalk.
It's gone, forever nevermore.
No hello, no winks, no meeting, or small talk.
It's gone, a battle paused, the unfinished love war.

Such beautiful tallness, to climb or to cut.
We climbed it half way, abruptly stopped.
You dropped my heart, it fell on the floor and it cracked.
I climbed down to pick it up, but on my way I collapsed.

I can't keep climbing with all the agony of shards in my heart.
It throbs in desolation from all the emptiness in the dark.
I reach out to find a lamp, a lighter, just one spark.
But you left me there. I'm alone, all alone by our beanstalk.

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