Poems exploring love and loss by A. A. Boding.
When we idled through the bounds of friendship,
We grew as the grass grew green.
Summer stirred up your quiescent roots, blooming
Buds where I had none.
Winter is more my season –
Here comes The Flood, and
Shroud this sprouting soil
With Winter’s cloak.
I lost him like I lose my words:
Unexpectedly, without meaning.
But I still look for him in these lines, in any lines, in all.
And when I see his face etched between each ballad to that pilgrim soul,
I yearn for times romanticised,
For times lost.
I would be rich if I were called to start false fires,
Not for adding the fuel, but watching it burn.
When you are weak, waning and wasted,
I shall be gorged. Unwillingly. Stuffed.
Like a puppet, you pull at my strings,
There is no point flipping the coin, when both sides tell the same
Diversity – of which we have none,
We will crash.
Why am I the only one to predict it?