Category: Verses from the Vault

Living in borrowed homes,
Never had one of her own,
Treading on estranged sands,
Beneath the scorching sun.

Hermit. Misfit.
Sehnsucht. Hiraeth.
Peerless part,
Lacuna in her heart.

Square peg in a round hole,
Crab in a seashell, far from whole.
Seeker of a shore untold,
Chasing dreams she longs to hold.

©️ 2024, Spitfire. All rights reserved.

Efflorescence of purple roses when he appeared,
She caught something in the middle of that stare,
As the intense fragrance invited her to dream,
Of a moment dressed evergreen.

Budding lilacs engulfed her heart, 
In a scenery of unforetold tale
of a love at first sight. 

©️ 2022, Spitfire. All rights reserved.

The night is sleeping soundly,
Somewhere in a countryside lay,
There, I’m a lost hiker in the forest of my mind,
Pinning hopes on an ancient compass with corroded spline.

On wayward routes heading South,
Entangled trail, faith’s in drought,
You emanated, lambent light of the North,
Mi luz guía, mi estrella polar.

Never a single bloodshed,
Seemed unscathed,
Yet, I’m a fallen comrade,
In this battlefield.

Every ounce of your pain is heard,
All your reasons, I understand,
But are you also receiving my end?
Cause I could no longer pretend.

Thoughts keep flooding my head,
How did we arrive at this extent?
Sleeping in the bed we made,
Under a blanket so frigid.

The words you told me besmirched my mind,
I know you’re angry so I’ll give you time,
I’ll wait for you to back-pedal,
I’ll gamble and put you on the pedestal.

But if there will be no apology,
Guess I have to walk away,
Maybe I don’t deserve a single “sorry”,
Or why would you be, if you think of me that way?

“A fallen comrade in this battlefield.”

Your eyes once mirrored a familiar stranger,
A transient cold stare sent me shivers,
As your warmth slipped through my fingers,
You were here, but I can’t feel you near.

We got lost in translation,
Plunged into the abyss of miscommunication,
Unalike languages we’ve spoken,
Ended in an unkind confrontation.

We traversed reconciliation,
On burning bridges verging destruction,
The dreams we constructed on a concrete foundation,
Why is it caving in to corrosion?

Strangely familiar,
I’ve been down this road before,
Picking up the tatters,
Injuring myself with the splinters.

Pinning my hopes on this poésie,
And the message it conveys,
You wounded me badly, too,
I ain’t brave enough to tell you.

Strangely familiar,
Deja vu, I’ve knocked on this chained door,
Nobody’s home, nobody answered,
Unsaid resentment and apologies unheard.

Strangely familiar,
Will we endure and maneuver?
Will we hold on a little tighter?
Against the glitch of fate, will we be smarter?

Can we just rewind?
And moments be revived?
When our worlds facilely collide,
And we didn’t even have to try.

You’re once a ship confined in his bottle,
Fooled into thinking that’s where you belong,
But the rocks broke that prison disguised as home,
And now you’re sailing across the vast ocean,
I figured you need no one,
But if someone comes along,
You deserve a harbor,
Not a bottle.

(Inspired by Brett Young’s song)

©️ 2021, Spitfire. All rights reserved.

You’re gonna taste her tears,
In every sip of that beer.
Will pierce your throat like dagger,
Worst than the madness you told her.

Sunken in the sea of alcohol tonight,
Seeking guidance from the blinding lights.
No amount can ease your thirst for her presence,
Yet your pride hinders you from swimming to the surface.

Prancing with the drunken sea creatures,
Pretending you’re better off without her,
‘Till you plunge into a fathomless trench on the seafloor,
But you can only wish to be reunited with the shores.

Pride and alcohol,
Makes you an intoxicated fool,
Tongue flavored with regrets,
Begging for her forgiveness and saving  grace.

©️ 2021, Spitfire. All rights reserved.

Helen of Troy,
The beauty that launched a thousand ships,
A ferocious ocean wrecking havoc,
To the sails tearing upon her feral winds,
To the sailors falling on their bare knees,
Yet the Trojan Prince came along,
Provoking warfare within herself,
A battle well-nigh to win,
In this version, will she choose him?
When she actually met him first?
Straddling his Trojan horse,
In the dearth of deceit and treachery?
Could they overwrite the ancient prose and poetry?
When she’s the unchained Helen of Troy? 

©️ 2021, Spitfire. All rights reserved.

Last few drops of ink,
For the last few words left to say. 
Last few strokes of quill,
For the last few unspoken poésies.

Last few drops of ink,
For the last few unwritten lyrics,
Last few guitar strums,
For the last few unrhymed music.

©️ 2021, Spitfire. All rights reserved.