The Bottle

Tempestuous gusts,
Shivering that echoes my soul,
As the trees shriek and squeal,
And the wind-chimes sound
Like they’re dying
On the shuddering breath
Of grief
As my wrung heart cries
An anguish that stutters
On morals and vows
The wind screams, lawless
As my heart trembles
Words falling off my lips
As indiscreetly as
Leaves stripped off the bough
By razor blades of ice
That burn like fire
in the pit of the belly:
Repressed passion,
Or was it the love
Of a soulmate denied,
Tamped down and bottled,
Almost forgotten
Shattered open
never to close, again?
And the trees beat themselves
With war-cries
The wind lashing
Deep grooves in their skin
Punishing, raging, weeping,
Unforgiven for denying
What was pure, true, and beautiful:
A spring of the loveliest roses
Warm, balmy butter of sun,
Velvet skin in semi-darkness
A cup of joy overflowing;
A perfect magical tapestry
That lasted and unfolded
A story told
In golden threads,
Until the world crushed it
And it crumbled
Like dust in the hand;
The final ember,
Still very alive,
Buried,
at the bottom of a bottle
That waited for
The violent gust
To shatter it.

 

~Amarine Rose Ravenwood

Public domain photo courtesy of Pixy.org