O beijo

Night landed on its dark
 4 wheels, the party was over.
 He parked the car after driving me
 to my mother's sleeping door, talked
 and seemed to wait for another story.
It was getting near, fear.
 He was so beautiful to me
 I could see the jealous lines
 forming themselves in the skies
 of tomorrow's slices and
 the hanging on blisters.
 Just by feeling my cold feet
 turning away from the
 blazing white shirt smile,
 I sure wasn't ready for it
 not to be too beautiful to be us.

O beijo no while running away to
the certainty of not seeing again
with such a well closed door.
 Years and years have gone by.
 Not the kiss that never was to be
 anything else than a lesson 
 beauty strikes life to be 
 it as such,
 at best,
 has been tried since
 but many other
 mistakes, or choices 
 not loss at best,
 are with the tip-dot-spot-ons.

Water flows lights in hay.
It's growing green again.
The worry stone in my pocket beats with 
unlost joy flowering in sunny steps.




Published by chameleoniantimes

Chameleonian Times, works by Helene Vanderhulst

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