post

I wrap a piece of coral sky
with a fading hint of blue
in a bit of magic paper
to send, my love, to you.

No storm shall steal its vibrant hue,
no forest mist shall hide,
nor oceans wash away
the warm winter light inside.

When you unseal the weary envelope,
my love, what will you see:
blank and crumpled paper,
or unearthly beauty?

T. E. Pyrus

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

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

Resonate

Listen.

Can you hear
the Bell
resound?

When you are lost in that book
of a stranger’s dreams
and memories of a distant lifetime,
recognising a piece of your own self
on every page, can you feel it
reverberating on your fingertips
when you trace faded words
of hope, and watercolour paintings
of joy and precious tears?

When she shows you
her first paper boat,
fresh white, with shy, joyful pride,
when she asks if you would
come with her to the waterside
to watch it drift into a new sunset-
greying softly in golden waters,
can you hear it in that silence,
rich with vulnerable excitement,
in the moment when you tell her
you’d love to?

When an old man, dressed in his best
dusty brown coat limps, smiling,
past you on the sidewalk,
can you feel it in his trembling hands;
can you see it in his newfound grace;
can you hear it in his tired,
gentle voice, in the steady rhythm
of his well-worn walking stick?

Can you hear it resonate,
like true laughter that rings clear
with your exasperating humour,
your heartful of love,
through the merry chaos of your mind
with what makes us
human?

T. E. Pyrus

the Sculptor

then she twirled around
beneath her dizzy sunset
and forgotten moon

like torn autumn leaves
that circled golden stormwinds
spiralled home to earth;

eyes, burning like snow,
summer raindrops on her lips
quivered with new mirth,

and i carved her breathless silhouette
with paper hands into the burning sky
ere they crumbled into breathing ash;

wishing stars burn quietly tonight.

T. E. Pyrus

embers and silence..,

She skips stones o’er shallow darkness
that ripples ’round her bare ankles.
twilights trace her lorn shoulders and soul,
pale wristlets of sunset that grace her wrists
burn bright, searing like heartbreak,
yet smoulder forever like untiring love;
her eyes, grey like shadow, twinkle with wry mirth
o’er shallow darkness, like faery knights
of new moon, vows of pure sunlight
every dawn; her hair, dear as midnight,
curtains wistful smiles: gentle curve of her frayed lips,
gentle hope that never fully breaks with falling time;
her laughter wakes the melancholic night;
o’re shallow darkness, wishing stars shine bright..,

T. E. Pyrus