Poetry through the Seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Back,
like I always knew
you would be,
like I never thought
I’d see.
My heart,
beaten and bloody,
is wrapped now
in softness,
caressed by curves,
held gently
by healing hands.
I have rested here,
another ear
leaning close,
another mouth
whispering.
A moment exists
where we will
always be together.
But we can’t
linger.
Wrapped in blond,
there is new light
and, in darkness,
there is love.
If hate could kiss,
would it be beautiful?
If love would last,
could it be kind?
* * *
Scent of past love lingers,
clinging like lace against my skin,
tattoos of pain no one can see,
intimate like a friend, like a torturer,
intimate like a friend, like a kidnapper,
intimate like a friend, like an executioner.
The scent of love lingers.
Talk to me, farm boy.
Tell me of your intentions.
Will you love the girl?
Will you scar her,
playing at love only to entice?
Talk to me of your secrets,
parts less shiny.
Is the trust on your face
merely tarnish?
The girl has been lied to before.
Tell me, do you dance?
Can you carry conversation?
Will you hold the girl
in times of need?
Talk to me.
This is no ordinary girl.
Her powers lie
beyond your imagine.
Lead her to worries,
she will drink.
The girl is fruitful,
her heartland rich.
Will you stick around
for the harvest?
Talk to me.
Farm boy, tell me,
are you true?
Sultry tones summon,
defining me, clawed
and bleeding with passion,
two of the same deceit.
The lines between beast
and savior blur.
And you ask,
Do you love me?
And I say,
I’ve never loved anything else.
Pain moves in
where love once lived.
Love packs a duffle
and drives away
in a blue van.
Music pricked his ears,
pouring straight
into his soul,
transforming him
into a creature,
wind in his fur,
flies in his teeth,
lifted from love’s arms,
its primitive heart
barely beating.
By candlelight
I carve out a life alone,
convinced
that I’m unlovable.
Insecurities, like bees,
pollinate fear
into brilliant blossoms.
I fall hard.
I fall deep,
red and black
and bleeding.
Lifted into flight,
beauty
frightened by love.
She wears scars on the inside,
dragon inn
dragon out,
drops her dress to forget, but
instead remembers,
diving deep into crimson sheets.
He wears teal, the color of his eyes,
telling tales
trick or treat,
wraps her hair around him like a cape,
escaping easily into morning coffee.
She never looked for him in daylight,
the sun
so hurts his eyes,
burning still, but can’t admit it,
her rarest jewels in heaps at his feet.
If we could watch life
ticking away in red
countdown numbers,
would we be content
knowing how many ticks
we have left?
Or would we rue each second,
too visibly aware
of how much is already lost?
Would fear overtake us,
gluing our feet to the very spot
on the floor where we stand
staring,
unable to live our lives,
unable to remove our gaze
from the numbers?
Or,
as they tick down
slowly,
one by one,
are we finally fearless,
having witnessed
the face of time?
she chances
to see them together
bile
what was once love
rises up
into her throat
she runs away
slipping on deceit
and falls to her death
her heart impaled
on betrayal’s sword
* * *
Love,
my disease
most desperate,
ripped from the vine
like raspberries,
red ripe and squashed
beneath my feet.
Love has me
shattered
into bitty pieces,
has left me smoldering.
Violet dark
and brooding,
love promises
to destroy us all.
Pain deeper
than a stake
through love’s
bitten heart,
so deep
is the river
I might
drown.
Hands join in battle,
friendship,
in love.
Hands move in pairs.
Holy lips bring fire,
burn house down.
Hands touch as lips,
creating great
disturbance.
Armless,
we lose the chance to hug.
In pairs,
we come back.
Alone,
we are fingers.
Together, hands,
joined
to make a difference.