All Past Girls Now Sunny Meadows

Not much of a tale dare

we speak of and also bitter

the tongue that speaks of it

now, a vile beast that looms.

Long have I grown meadows

that once sprinkled with ashes,

that smell like love.

Once banquet for eyes, now a husk.

All the meadows that I grew,

and dare I say, quite a few,

ruptured a fragment of my soul

leaving the shell of a man.

All the girls that I loved

smelled like sunny meadows.

Reminiscent of that bloom

fills the heart, and the heart that blooms.

All the girls that I loved

smelled like sunny meadows.

Like a smell that shall never leave

but alas, one you never preserve.

All the girls that I loved

smelled like sunny meadows.

Stems made of passion to stem

the blood that soaks the petals.

All the girls that I loved

once danced in my meadows.

Often rainy, we, the wet peasant,

devoured the gifted, the above.

All the girls that I loved

once laid their compassion to rest.

Where the hollow meadow grasped

soaked their souls with peace.

All the girls that I loved

grew wistful, now a visage.

No more the soft whisper of petals—

the roar of bramble now warns.

All the girls that I loved

has their sun set for me.

A dawn of emptiness surrounds

now what remains a husk, the sunny meadows.

All the girls that I loved

once touched my meadows.

Fields that once thrived joined

me with blossoms, now dappled.

All the girls that I loved...

Lavish.

Was I their sun, their source of life,

or did my shadow bring the strife?

Did careless hands pull roots too deep,

leaving fields to wilt and weep?

All the meadows that we abandoned-

you, reader, have you forgotten them?

Long have we waited, a grim remembrance

now unveiling a cadaver.

Us.

All the girls that I loved

fleeted away from my meadows

Is it the fleeting love that I crave

or etched in heart, the haze?

All the girls that I loved,

for I loved many and none,

touched my meadows.

All gifted the fragrance

for they tapped into the soul.

Of all the meadows that I grew,

one haunts my dreams in golden hue.

Its sun still warms my weary chest,

a meadow lost, but loved the best.

Yet meadows bloom where none should stand,

pushing through frost and brittle sand.

New blossoms rise where ashes lay,

reminding hearts that love won’t stay.

It has been a long time since I last wrote a poem, let alone anything that delves deep into my core. The past weeks, perhaps months, have been relentless. Seconds, minutes, hours, days—time devours everything, again and again. The pursuit to fill the gaps in one's life seems to seep into every blood-soaked verse. I could never fill them, hence the sunny meadows.

Many have travelled through my meadows, yet I remember so few. Some wield shiny swords to sever memories, forgetting the people they once loved. I pity them. To forget is easy; to embrace, harder. I, too, learnt and felt. But the fragments of the past weigh heavy, especially in the stillness of night. The dream of separation keeps me awake—though there is no one left to be separated from, the ghosts of memory find me, right on my pillow.

Then slowly—very slowly—you crack the window, let the freezing air in, and crawl under the blanket. Right next to your memories.

If the meadows you keep are empty, you die.

If the meadows you keep are beautiful, you warm up. Until another day.

Until next time, when we travel to The Terrace to embrace the stars that warmed two lost souls, two lost souls who seemingly felt connected. Perhaps there, a meadow untouched by time awaits.

January 27, 2025.

11:30PM