A Never-Coming Tomorrow and Other Poems

Vicky L.

1 min read

This Reticent Acquiescence

I want you to know, that
heartaches come and go, that
resilience may not be
my forte in the case of you.

I want you to know, that
I’ve tried walking the distance
to cast off the sullen tragedy
of our unfinished, cracked pages,
in which we enclosed our utmost trust
before it suffered with time, and that
many a sea and ships harbour my lament
for hours that I can no longer dominate.

I want you to know, that
every fibre of me is eradicated
for the time being, with
your departure, with
us apart, and that
the glistening joy in your eyes
is a clapping thunder that breaks my senses,
for I know that the spark
is no longer created
by the electricity of our personas’ touch—
by the late-night talks—
by the fluttering bumblebee enticed by our flowery, crossed stars.

I want you to know, that
these are the words
that might’ve left my mouth dry,
if only
our bridge wasn’t lit in time.

A Never-Coming Tomorrow

Write off a name, and it’s never going to be yours.
I’ll put down lyrics on hold—
in between your lashes, glasses,
and promises too late,
for the early birds to serenade.

Sing, of a long-buried hope.
Sing, of bottled-up remorses.
Sing, of a wistful sorrow
that binds us together in a lit-up,
crumbling stone castle.
Sing, birds, and whisper to her:
this is a song of a never-coming tomorrow.

The Rider

A rider threw up a pen, and I scribbled.
I made lines of his paths of adventures.
Those bandits and wolves, and the hell-sent sirens,
I followed them all and lit them on fire.

I found myself bound to his gratitude.
Our glammed up cores mashed with borrowed time.
‘Til he saw the lie sordidly resting in my tomb.
He poured me his wine, exposed me to my crime.

I pulled out a pen, and the rider got down.
I made an epitaph of his crumpled gun.

The Sun of Our Time

She knew I was made of solid water.
I was a block of ice, and she made me crumble.
A gaze to her soul was a scorching fire,
so I melted and died
just before summer.

Happy Wedding Day

Herein rest my words
along the chiming flowers
crushed in your finger


Editor: Moch Aldy MA

Vicky L.

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