if, another thinly veiled metaphor for love

if i was the kind of writer that wrote epic tales of love

i would pen my greatest works with you in mind

if i had the talent to scribble down my thoughts in fluid prose and express myself

i would write stanzas for you that made you cry tears of joy and sorrow

would let you into the desolate castle where i lock away the softer emotions i don’t truly know how to handle

i would compare you to the freshly opened blooms on the rose bush

your fragrance drifting on the breeze

intoxicating all that came in contact with your beauty

i would sketch your face into the minds of all who read my words

make them feel for you the way i have since the moment we found each other by chance in this world of pain

if i were a better poet

i would detail all the times our souls found each other through out time immemorial

of you being the princess and i a lowly scullion

you finding my scrawled out declarations of love but not knowing who they were written to

your father arranging a marriage

you confronting me and as i stared down at my feet explaining they were for you

us running away the day of the wedding and living the rest of our lives as simple farmers in the country

if i had the words

of you sitting in a field of wildflowers making a wreath of daisies for your hair

me succumbing to my wounds and falling off my horse

you finding me in the road and taking me home to nurse me to health

you sitting alone humming softly

and me, a songbird in my cage whistling along with every note

if i had the skills to paint the picture of a thousand lives and each one holding us entwined by destiny throughout history

but i am a poor wordsmith

lacking the depth of character to expound upon love and happiness

arthritic from pain brought down by years of searching for you without even knowing your name

just that you are missing

the desperate need to be whole with no inner compass to guide me to your inner light

if i could spill that pain onto the blank canvas of life

paint with broad strokes and a delicate touch

spin the threads of the interwoven tapestry that is, has always been, the story of two souls bound together by the fickle hands of fate


your puppy, your slave, your lover, your husband, your protector


my salvation, my queen, my master, my goddess, my sword against the evils of this world

of secret kisses and sleepless nights

your presence the sunshine blanketing the world with a happy glow

my presence the thunderstorms that rattle and shake before the healing rains washing away your hopelessness

if i could i would write all of this and more

prove that every line of pure and honest emotion was inspired by the way we look at each other in a crowded room as if no one else existed

if only there was a way to tap into the hidden reserves and finally spill all the things my leaden tongue will not allow me to say out loud

but i cannot

and so they remain unsaid

unspoken wishes that never come true

still born daydreams

muttered in the silence of this cell

unanswered prayers for release

but maybe one day i will have the courage to spit the thoughts that torment

if only i had a way

if only i had the fortitude to express these desires that boil just beneath the surface and carve a lasting reminder of my love in the marble that forms a shield around my sickly spirit

free myself to tell you that every night i fall asleep and dream of your embrace

and wake with sorrow that you are far from reach

if i could i wonder

if i could dare to speak



17 thoughts on “if, another thinly veiled metaphor for love

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