Two divergent directions
Two divergent eras, but they seem
To converge in an identical dream .
A strong blond, a taciturn brunet,
Their fight against the world,
And the home that they find in one another.
Is it better to speak or die?
Is it better to live or to let live?
Is it better to have had memories or be made of them?
But it is better to have loved than to have feared.
In the sweltering summer sparks,
He met his balmy gaze and exchanged a million emotions.
The vineyards intertwined behind the static waves of water.
He clutched on to his necklace, while another shined his helmet.
They had faith, hope until, they hadn’t any.
One of the two always hid in nature.
Under the shady trees with a book and a sheet music.
Carve wood, swindle leaves, swim in silence.
They always hid. From themselves. From reality.
From the truth they thought would destroy them
But in turn salvaged their souls.
He plucked the strings of the lyre,
That reverbed with nostalgia .
He gently ran his fingers over the keys
And struck a chord with the spirit of silence .
Pacing it with his heart beats
That transformed and transcended.
Strolls in the forest, splashes of aqua
Riding the heavens, cycling the cobbled lanes.
Ignored signs and scathing eyes.
A prickly bush of lush.
He gathered the sun kissed figs,
Its tender heart cut open
They savored the taste off each other,
Like bees bumbling for honey.
A peach in his orchard, fresh as may.
He picked one off the branch.
Thrusted into its heart, the seed of his quagmire,
treating it as bust and giving it a life of lust.
He swallowed down the peach, relished on it
Like the love he made on a spring eve.
And the tension in its dripping nectarine,
Oh, so palpable, in the undercut of twilight.
But all of it under wraps,
Yet, how they were wrapped around each other, unknown.
The familiarity of smell and touch
Of sighs and breaths.
A scent of hyacinth crushed by the rain.
They explored their bodies.
Held it, felt it. Grew on to it.
Brushed fingers on parts uncharted
Caressed into a safe place to fall back to.
He broke down .He was livid. His nose bleed,
Along with the wounds of his hearts.
It all felt wrong, a sin, against God’s will.
Don’t ever say you didn’t know.
And so, not a fig was given
For the peach and cream they had dipped into,
He was half of his soul, every cell replicating,
One that cannot be buried without the other.
They were friends first and lovers second,
But then perhaps this is what lovers are.
Time made it sentimental.
So they tried each other’s armours,
Tried out each other's names,
And light broke into stardust
And corpses’ into ashes
And the ash wood into crackling fire
That died at dawn ,when
Hundred golden urns poured out of the sun
From time that they had merely borrowed.
~SVP
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