Of love, woe and metaphor

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Love is annihilation of consciousness,
with touch as cold as ice, penetrating
deep into a Poet’s bones.

You can feel its heart when storm clouds
rumble in the sky, feel words unblunted
cut through path of every false promise
made.

Love, is the tickle of marigold’s tongue,
a grey lightly raining morning in June,
and poems that bleed beneath harvest
moon.

Can you hear me murmuring its restless
tune?

I devoured a bag of honey-dew wisdom
knowing once the spirit’s rose is dead—
shall fade, which tinged, with colors of
regret.

 

Photo credits: Unsplash

Word list: Bones, annihilation, dead, ice.

Posted for ‘Poems in April’ @ Real Toads

Posted on Poetry Pantry @ Poets United 

66 thoughts on “Of love, woe and metaphor

  1. Magaly Guerrero says:

    Your first stanza hits like a hammer, especially the first line. Love can be such a shocker, a crippling of self (if we don’t keep an eye on its creeping). Annihilation, indeed… Yet, we open our hearts, and whisper, “Have me anyway.”

  2. Ellecee says:

    I love this, especially the first lines
    “Love is annihilation of consciousness, with touch as cold as ice, penetrating deep into a Poet’s bones.”
    and so it is….

  3. kaykuala says:

    knowing once the spirit’s rose is dead—
    shall fade, which tinged, with colors of
    regret

    Love can certainly bring this feeling! Great close Sanaa!

    Hankm

  4. HA says:

    Ah, these woes are felt and acknowledged in your verse.
    I absolutely loved this stanza: “Love, is the tickle of marigold’s tongue,/a grey lightly raining morning in June…”.
    Such a gorgeous write, Sanaa.

  5. Old Egg says:

    What cruel words of disappointment, sadness and regret that love was so fickle, so unkind to the narrator. How long would it be before the longing would overpower the memories and the spark of desire rekindle their mind? How beautifully you wrote this Sanaa, I really loved it.

  6. teal says:

    Oh, how beautiful:
    “Love, is the tickle of marigold’s tongue,
    a grey lightly raining morning in June,
    and poems that bleed beneath harvest
    moon.”

  7. gillena says:

    “I devoured a bag of honey-dew wisdom
    knowing once the spirit’s rose is dead—
    shall fade, which tinged, with colors of
    regret.”

    Oh yes love does have its Menu of hurts
    Thanks for dropping by my Sunday Standard today Sanaa

    much love…

  8. Chrissa says:

    Tactile and rich–I enjoyed the last stanza that contrasted overindulgence evaporating to emptiness, which felt like the ending of a ballet. 🙂

  9. Susan says:

    Ouch! The flavor of the diction in this poem is bitter and convincing.
    I hate those times when like the knives we sharpen, we “feel words unblunted.”
    I wish never again to feel ” annihilation of consciousness,
    with touch as cold as ice. . . ”
    Let me never again have hindsight showing me regret!
    Whether or not my wishes are possible, this is a sharp and fabulous poem.

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