Sunday sunshine breaches dark cloud,
streams through bedroom window,
warming my face–
I stretch over white duvet.
On bedside table, black coffee waits
going cold as
I ruminate start of this day;
“Come what may.”
His scent on me–
Lost within a dream–
or blown away on the wind,
like summer blue sky
in late August–
or Italian lavender.
so sweet with that
and the promise whispered;
I cannot auspicate future need,
or if planets will align.
Revelations are, indeed, for another time.
At most, these memories upon which I feed–
wait as I continue to ruminate–
and hope they do not grow cold.
By A.E. Wallace
My Secret Garden
Carnivorous Lily– by A.E. Wallace
Not sure how we came to the notion,
taking that potion at the end of the day—which lead to the smoking—
This is where it all went a different way.
Leaving my watcher,
I went for a wander
down a meandering path.
Pulled down dark chasm—floating, falling, flying —
Into a message
that shot through the dark—
from a distance—
in some uncertain tongue:
All that is, isn’t.
One-time daydream demanding development–
Eaten alive in some floral reality,
the need for my Freedom became the key–
The inviolability of my heart had been much abused.
No longer loved—but bound by a vow–
The elegant simplicity;
He is not the one.