I often wander the corridors of forgotten times,
Reliving the experiences that gave my heart joy,
A brimming heart full of the possibility of love,
And random moments I got to enjoy.
😘
I whisper through the quietude of melancholy,
As I remember the sensation of a passionate kiss,
A word breezily thrown my way for my ears alone,
And the enormity of a loss that painfully persist.
😘
The years swallowed around the lump in my throat,
A reminder of the intensity of a glorious passion,
A forgotten tingle of sensitive fingertips,
A shoulder offered in a moment of compassion.
😘
A sensation of confidentiality accessed on the airwaves,
A distance so vast as to mask the opportunity,
Questing for a thirst of the forgotten past,
When love was held within two sets of hands in unity.
😘
A screenplay rolls with snippets from the vault,
Mingling with the archival joy of timeless thought,
Reliving the preciousness of a divine connection,
Disintegrating when destruction once again fraught.
😘
Tender moments locked deeply within the chambers of my heart,
Revisited only on the randomness of whimsical emotions,
When love’s sustainability was forever questioned,
And belief was favoured over the simplest devotions.
😘
The strength of a desire so pure as to be righteous,
Eclipsing the hardened heart with its inflexibility,
Melting the steel chains within the keeping of a prisoner,
Carrying through the abyss in a chorus of adaptability.
😘
I traverse the archived files of love, passion and joy,
Reliving the feelings in the comfort of my heart,
Is there a possibility of rekindled emotions?
The taking up of the flame allowing a loving heart to restart?
Please click the link below my name to read more of my work. I would also like to thank you for taking the time to read this today and for all your support.
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Please visit my website if you'd like more information on my newly published book, Battle Angel : The Ultimate She Warrior.
Originally published on Medium
About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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