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In so few words
My voice was silenced,
My feelings crushed,
My heart broken.
Our world in chaos
And no way to right it.

#Poetheme 118


Bitter Sweet

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All those things you said.
Those words you used.
All those words.
Not that I believed them.
Not then.
But, oh! how sweet they sounded.
And how often you said them.
And how much I wanted to believe.
But, I was right not to.
Not the words.
Not the sweetness.
Not you.
I knew, all along, such words were not for me.
All those beautiful, sweet words.
Not meant for me.


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Today the still small voice would be heard.
She lay quiet, listening to the steady sighing of his breath.
Outside the first birds, roused by the gentle lifting of darkness, tested their neighbours’ wakefulness. Soon others would wake and add their tentative chirps and chattering to the chorus. And the quiet would be broken. The morning would begin and she would have to turn her thoughts away from the night, and look to the day. This was not to be an easy day for her, most certainly not for him. He would not understand and she would not be able to explain. There would be tears and anger and heartbreak. She watched him sleep, sadness like stone deep inside her. She could leave now and not face the storm of anguish but she knew she would not. She would wait for this man, who she loved more than life itself, to wake and then she would break his heart and hers.

First published as part of Last Line First . A companion piece to Stillness.

Summer Love

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A summer of laughter. We flew half way around the world, walked hand in hand on beaches of golden sand, gazed rapt at the stars so bright in the night sky. We surfed, riding the salt waves. We dove beneath them; swam, amazed by the silent, undersea world. Dazzled by the colours, the sunshine, the glistening seas, we thought our happiness was complete, unassailable.

Just one month of English sleet drove an icy wedge between us, our sunshine forgotten, the colours leeched away. By six months the shades of our love were drawn, hanging limp and grey, our happiness quartered.

Ink on Paper

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Clutching the book to her breast, she cried. The gathered tears overspilling, dangled for a moment in fat droplets at the tips of lashes before dipping to trace a slow glistening trail across her cheek. Heartbreaking sobs broke from the depths of her soul and the tears flowed faster. She dashed them away, her anguish inconsolable.
Words from the book danced through her mind, each sentence remembered, caused a fresh deluge of tears and renewed sobbing. Her chest ached with the effort of breathing, of dragging in the unwanted air to her lungs. There was no room for breath. Her chest was filled to bursting with the pain in her heart.
She opened the book and stared at a page. A year of words left to her. Beautiful words, meaninful words, words filled with love, with hope. How could he have written so much and yet meant so little? The words mocked her. How naive she had been! How eager to believe. Now she saw them for what they were – false, worthless, empty words. Nothing more than ink on paper. She closed the book and a coldness seeped into her soul.

This follows on from an earlier post for Last Line First – Void, the last line of which was chosen to be the first line for the following week. It made sense to me to link the two…

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