Poetry

WITHOUT THE SIRENS

Without the sirens,
Our fathers heard the marriage bells.
Dear wind,
Please ferry this plaint to
The sons and daughters
Whose umbilical cords knew this soil,
Tell them,
Yes tell them
That to be someone else is expensive,
And ask them
To choose between the apparels weaved with our toil
And the garments that swam the sea.

Without the sirens,
Our fathers heard the marriage bells.

Just remember this.

©TurksonQuills

Poetry

THE SUICIDE NOTE

I stopped writing the moment you left.
You were my inspiration for every single word I thought of.
I loved the desire of your eyes when they looked at me.

Many a time, I felt your hug was the safest haven (tears flow from eyes).
Since you left,
I’ve swum in reverie thinking we were a thing,
Thinking we were a bliss,
Thinking we were better than hatred’s abyss,
But I dreamt of a fallacy—we were just a fling.

Days birthed—crawled—walked into the lair of years,
And years gave up the salt for new dawns.
Love, I still held you close to my heart.
If there was something I did,
You should’ve told me,
But you chose to walk the aisle of the dumb.

Why, why did you leave?

My love began and ended with you.
Death is whispering its silent, ebullient, melodies in my ears

Pen drops in pain—moves to the noose.

‘the silent estate welcomes a new soul’

©TurksonQuills

Poetry

LOST IN BETWEEN DAWNS

…I thought ’tis one of the odd days of love
Where the curls of your hair will walk away from me,
And still, respond with a wink.
Where dashing for the doorknob
Was just a way you expressed anger and disgust—
It wasn’t.

At least, it could’ve been voiced—this breakup,
Or probably said over lunch,
But it came with a beep—
A text laced with thorny swords—
A text as deadly as a serpent’s venom—
A text, midget-like, but full of pain.
It whispered it’s over,
For another sits on the heart’s throne.

At that moment…

I’m still lost in between dawns

©TurksonQuills, 2021.

Poetry

WHY DOES SHE COME

Why does she come, when she knows my love is nothing, but hell?
Why does she come, when she knows I have nowhere to dwell?
Why does she come, when she knows I own neither gold nor pearl?

Maybe, it’s love—I guess so,
Or she just likes my eyes’ glow.

I can’t tell,

But I know, in a sec, our love will fade away,
And we’ll become a memory of yesterday.

I don’t want her lips to utter, “Had I known”
Before she realises that she’d always been alone.

You see, everything about me isn’t real,
So I need her to change how she feels.

Tell her, please tell her that I’m a mistake,
And all I can offer to her young love is heartaches.

©TurksonQuills, 2021.

Poetry

WAILING QUILL

Have you ever seen words

That pierce the heart like arrows,

Or a nest inhabiting not birds,

But a crowd of bedfellows?

Maybe, just maybe a yes.

I met her on the sunshine of March.

Perhaps shining, but she was an angel of mess.

She seemed a perfect match

With glows of the august colours of petals.

Her aura defined betrayal’s serenity,

For her beauty portrayed meaning of lethal

Outlining its sin to love’s eternity.

She made my heart bleed

the inks of a wailing quill

© TurksonQuills

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