I suppose if the arts had any real power
Michaelangelo's David could have healed my brother
Rimbaud could have saved Hiroshima
Monet could have painted the world in shades of peace
Desiderata could have protected me
But this is the real world
And where poetry once grew comes the art of fabrication
Dali's obras are no longer enough to make me forget
Moonlight Sonata never warned me of this hurt
The waltz never healed a broken family

I suppose if the arts had any real power
Beethoven wouldn't have gone deaf
Van Gogh would have been happy
Hemingway would have loved better
And Ginsberg wouldn't have been afraid to love

Yet here they all are
When the only light I see is on hundred year old canvas
When the only solace I have is a dead man's words
When the only thing that keeps my heart thundering
Is the promise of a Boticelli ending in Picasso figures
All colors, beauty, light and metaphors
The promise of a Renaissance gleaming in the ashes of prose

This is the real world
I suppose if the arts had any real power
It would heal more than just my heart
It would build me a new Garden of Eden
And I'd pave a way to nirvana
So the world could join hands
And start anew

But it's saved me for now
That is enough.

Images extracted from
the tapestry of my dreams.
Sewn intricate...
Into a patchwork.

A quilt,
embroidered with lavish sequins and ornate beads.
Bringing forth fantastical motifs...
A dazzling display
upon the backdrop of my dreamscape.

Yet...
This mosaic of dreams
does not warm me so.
It never lasts.

They fall away like autumn leaves
come the dawning sun.
They get washed out and pulled into the tide,
as the waves beat upon the shore of wakefulness.
They fade into fragmented memories
that make no sense...
Incoherent and disjointed.

Eventually, they disappear...
For they do not belong
in a world of worldly things
and ticking clocks.
Their intangible and mismatched nature
render them inconsequential...
Naturally...
They get misplaced.

But I am stubborn.

I will fashion such a blanket.
One that skirts the boundary
of this realm and the other.

I will tailor it so...

So that...
I will sleep tonight,
swaddled tight and cocooned within its
glorious seams.
Tucked within the safety and warmth of
this blanket...
Woven immaculate...
Out of
worldly things and breathtaking dreams.

I used to write.
Now, I stare.
I stare at the paper
and the blank white screen.
Red ink unused in my pen,
no longer blue ink stains on my hands.
Ever since we met,
I can no longer feel enough to write.
I used to write.

I wanted to share more of me
You just wanted to flaunt to your friends
I was willing to give you everything
But you turned all my love into shame
I was prepared to give you my life
But you had me believing a lie

-Gloraeanna

©Lie by Gloraeanna
Shared on Hello Poetry
on February 8, 2016
All rights reserved

I am out of tune
It doesn't matter what you play
The monochrome sound will remain
Even with new keys
The beauty of that piece
Is mangled in my strings.
So please,
Just leave me here in the dust
To rot in this silent room because
I am beyond repair
I will never play again...