inarticulable

Do you realize
my frustration when I fail every day
to pour my whole soul onto paper?
What once seemed so simple
now comes over me
like an overwhelming infinity
I cannot tie down with shallow words.

Language is not enough.

I wish I were an artist,
not a writer
suffocating in scribbled alphabets that,
like rusty beads threaded onto an endless thread
in the dusty corner
by the window of a forgotten attic,
stare sullenly at breathtaking marvels
of sunsets and starry nights
and you.

Language is not enough.

You deserve watercolour skies,
pale blue, tinged with the shifting greys of your stormy eyes
and violets of night, the faery gold-saffrons of sunsets:
only such pure magic is a worthy background;
not crooked phrases on notebook paper,
nor struck off lines,
nor the telltale haste of blotted ink.

Language is not enough.

Soft distant song that melts souls,
mends hearts, may bring you to life
in brief, timeless harmonies…
I wish I lived music
so I’d veil impassive keyboard clicks
with heartbreaking violins,
the wonder in wordless whispers of flutes.

Language is not enough.

Someday, you might fathom how
no faerytales, nor poetry
hold the miraculous ability
to live to tell of unearthly wonders
of heartbreaking joy,
of promises, forevers,
of you.

Someday, perhaps you’ll fathom why
language won’t ever be enough.

T. E. Pyrus

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Tick-

winds over this shallow sea
where violet evenings rise and fall
like a hypnotized tide
whisper like the last monsoon;
the taste of rain, the smell of salt,
and the soft, muted ticking
of the Clock
beneath peaceful waters.

winds over this shallow sea
where smokey sunsets rise and fall
like a hypnotized tide
whisper like lovers’ farewells;
the taste of rose, the smell of ink,
and the soft, harmless ticking
of the Clock
muffled in peaceful waters.

winds over this shallow sea
where dusty gold mornings rise and fall
like a hypnotized tide
whisper like haunted laughter;
the taste of ash, the smell of sun,
and the soft, stifled ticking
of the Clock
imprisoned in peaceful waters.

winds over this shallow sea
where ebony midnights rise and fall
like a hypnotized tide
whisper like quiet amnesia;
the taste of loss, the smell of sleep,
and the ever-present ticking
of the Clock
awake under peaceful waters.

Wait.

T. E. Pyrus

I dream about forevers now…

I dream about forevers now…

Sometimes I gaze at warm, starry nights
and wonder if a cooler breeze
now sways your molten copper sunsets…

Sometimes I dream of snowy winters,
my hand in yours, someday,
warm amongst cold snow, beautiful…

Sometimes I dream about your shy laughter,
soft, heart-shattering, dear,
and wish I could see you, precious,
like the first bare blush of dawn…

Your eyes hold oceans and storms,
forests and moonlight that falls silver
through her veil of torn clouds…

Sometimes I wonder how I’ll stutter,
fumbling with bashful words
and a stumbling heartbeat
when I look up
to finally see you
beyond photographs and warmthless screens…

I wonder every day,
when I wake up to a hundred little texts,
how I could possibly fall deeper for your wonderful mind,
and if I’ll wake up someday with you by my side…

Sometimes I wonder how you hold your pencil over paper,
the look in your eyes,
the curve of your lips when you bring plain grey lines to life…

My mind wanders, yet again, to our silence over phone,
the way I closed my eyes for a moment
and believed I wasn’t alone,
that you were here, with me,
not years, nor oceans away…

Sometimes I wonder
how it might feel
to simply, quietly
stay with you,
be yours…

Sometimes I wonder, childishly, if you wonder too…

T. E. Pyrus

untouched

Don’t gift a writer a pretty notebook

with beautiful cream pages
that feel expensive between fingertips;

with fine chocolate lines that rule
and frown upon plain pencil marks
and erasers that offend their handmade finish;

with hardbound frame
like royalty in synthetic leather robes
and gold engravings, like polished crowns;

with satin ribbon page-markers
anchored to the spine
demanding profound words and lines
worthy of its memory;

with sharp, flawless corners
of each page, ridiculing first drafts,
second thoughts, a third line
that strikes out a muddled word –
perfection, perfection, refined and bold;

with a plain first page
and a single word: “Name:”
printed precisely at the centre
in elaborate calligraphy;

and who are we
to blemish such breathtaking finery
with trembling words and petty fears
that we never deserved this privilege
of tinkering with imagined worlds?

and who are we
to blemish subtle finery;
to curb the possibilities
of marvels these pages might hold
if it were someone else’s hand that held them,
and not ours?

 

Don’t gift a writer a pretty notebook.

Perhaps gift them a conversation
about the weather, or a busy day,
or a failed brownie recipe.

 

We’re not too particular.

 

T. E. Pyrus

until

maybe i’ll watch a sunset
float leisurely up to the polished rim
of a wineglass full of cool water.

maybe i’ll taste
shy rainbows on sunlit waterfalls
on peaceful afternoons.

maybe i’ll watch mid-mornings
fade into matted shadow
on broken sunglasses by the sea.

maybe i’ll gaze at a hundred moons
that wait soundlessly
in dewdrops every dawn.

maybe i’ll stay there,
watching forevers flow
like clear raindrops
through the spaces between my fingers.

maybe i’ll wait,
until time feels real again.

T. E. Pyrus

window-side

two cups of sweetened tea
rest half empty
on a low glass table
by the open curtains.

sometimes, a passing breeze
disarranges crumbs of softened biscuits,
or ripples the pale reflection
of a streetlamp in each teacup
like polished half moons.

dishevelled cushions
on a weathered couch
smell like lonely conversation
and wistful incense smoke.

the rusted window grills
listen quietly to another dusty night,
filtering through strangers’ dreams
and intertwining memories.

T. E. Pyrus