X
Marks the spot.
Eyes are the windows to the soul
Is that why they are called blinds?
To blind the world of our messes
Our distresses as we distrust.
To hide from judgement, expectations
From speculating agencies
To close separating realities
What’s yours stays yours and what’s mine has been buried in the basement
No x will mark that treasure
Straight from the horses mouth
Doesn’t it imply more than bit or bridal?
A brides tale of how it was meant to be
Her dreams of borrowed blue and new
Blue skies cloud minds and fog memories
Of what she once knew of who she once held
Who was always him forever
Where he went was inconsequential
Gone, so she pushes back the memories Burying them deep
No x will mark that treasure
The early bird gets the worm
But isn’t it still too late for the worm?
Too late for a change of plans
To change the exchanges we’ve shared
To shift how we will be remembered
With fluttering morning wings
Mourning the loss of loved ones
Tears shed falling lightly in the grass
Seeping into earth and resting on wooden surface six feet below
No x will mark that treasure
