finding you
traversing the battlefield
obstacles in the way
it’s war, they say
between lovers
trying to find their way
choosing words, clothes, manners
carefully
but getting burned
all the while
by apathy or disgust, despair
loneliness being a spectre
the warzone becomes common ground
all parties equally lost
but searching
niceties set aside
for heartfelt declarations
there are no heroes
or Purple Hearts
just broken hearts and trails of tears
littering the path
to love
and sunshine
and a new day
when the rain washes away
the wounds
the battle scars remaining
as badges
to build dreams upon
rummaging
finally, I could write a little something
it’s starting to be like that cigarette
or that drink after dinner
or that late morning break at work
feels like the release I need
when I let the words out
of me
spilling over
sometimes pretty
like waves of lavender
or an impressionist portrait
sometimes horrid
like a haunted house
or a cubist tortured animal rendering
either way
I need it now
the relief tremendous
the writing
the words
rummaging through files
in my brain
nymph
barely a glimpse
before she disappeared
in the dark woods
like a mythical nymph
he stared long
into the gloom
hoping for a sliver of light
but she was gone
and he was left with memories
of butterfly wings
and fireflies
the taste of dusk
on his tongue
the cool grass under his feet
her warmth still tingling on his fingers
he stood at the edge of the forest
he would return often
searching for a myth
looking for a flash
of lost hopes and flavored dreams
his nymph
carrying his laugh away
and his heart bursting
at even the thought of her
comfort
sinking into a big chair
with a fluffy blanket
a steaming cup of tea
stacks of books nearby
I may be trapped
by comfort
forevermore
The Word Rummager 