The Flowers Ceased to Bloom

The Flowers Ceased to Bloom

And she dreams in rosey colors
whispering his name before the dawn
and he thinks of something bigger
than the shame that he floats on
and I believe one day it comes to pass
that neither he or she will know
That to keep a pretty garden
you need the sun to make it grow

Moving on I think she soon will know
what it means to have ones pity
moving on I think he'll soon regret
that he fled far from the city
because the light the darkness shadows
and neither one of them anticipates
that the test of all these bitter fears
will result in different fates.

Far beyond the grasp of minds
she finds a place to shine
far beyond the grasp of hearts
in the darkness he reclines
while awake she wonders never more
where the path that he took bound him
that the shire dead upon the stone
is where the bitter gods then found him

But in the depths of darker dreams
she reaches out to him to know
the sun never reached his garden gate
and the flowers ceased to grow
she'll remember then, if just in shadows
that he stood there in her rooms
and for only just a space in time
did she believe that he could bloom.

Chaplin in the Sun

Figured this was as good a place as any to post some of my poetry. I enjoy writing it when the mood strikes me. This one was published, so I'll put it here first.

Chaplin in the Sun

Sometimes she wore remember like a banner in her hair;
dressed up like November sitting in a porcelain chair.
Musing over faded endings before they ever had begun;
She was Mary Riley. He was Chaplin in the sun.
Together they were "silence"; He wore "what if", she wore "If ever"
And apart they were "we didn't" and alone soon spoke of "never"
And now she see's remember like a clock upon the wall;
in a starry night november; when the leaves begin to fall
And she's closer to "when I was young, there was a lovely boy"
when she was the child in the box and he the broken toy
And now she feels remember past that adolescent pain
and it all seems made of nothing lost in adolescent rain
and she weaves a bed of memories the way a spiders web is spun
of when she was Mary Riley and he was Chaplin in the sun.