A Poem: "A Letter"

A Letter
By Jenna Reimer

If you were to not wake
At tomorrow’s dawn,
Where the red branches of a willow
Birth the slow hand of autumn,
I would continue.
If I no longer wish to breath
Your fire, an impalpable ash,
Destroying this deadened brush,
My wind of banners will sail a free isle.
If you decide to leave me along shore
Drenched in sea water, chained in weeds,
My arms would lift; my roots
Set off towards another land.
I would forget you as if all that exists
Exists without you.
You would forget me, little by little,
And I would forgive you.
When you no longer have a voice
I shall go on living;
My years becoming all but roadways
Of forgetting and searching.

A Much Needed Update!! - A Poem

The Barren
By Jenna Reimer

In the end you are weary of this abandoned world.
Among your fetishes in a weak and soulless flame
That fume a sky of clouded doubt and unknown,
Where a fury of scarred electric stars and blazing moons
Exist in a furnace of cobalt and crimson hollows,
You tremble in a league admit a blinded fleet.
Drifting ashes brush the faces of preset men
Wanting to walk home and simply retire.
Yet, you launch into a solemn slumber,
Aloft the drift of deep delirium in an exiled sleep;
Dying in a tamed and watchful sorrow.

Do you get where I’m coming from?

I know you try.
Talk in drunkenness, but otherwise
our sweetened speech faces
death to my odd visage.

I want to love.
My soul; alone in the wild
thirsts for recognition to be unloved.
Do you get where I’m coming from?

Your face of one
resurrects my mystical dream
of moonlight kisses and winters breath;
be bounded only to a wish of sleep.

Your tears look bleak.
I do not understand, what is, not numb;
my intentions are well.
Do you get where I’m coming from?

The Last Summer part II

In harrowing fears the wind works against us.
Branches build within the confines of our mind,
the roots of our soul,
the harrowing fears of our very heart.
Snow pelts windows and withers trees
waltzing along the sodden pasture line
forgetting the profit and loss.
Here is no soil but only water,
no water but soil in a bogged road
where pebbles drift from mountains
who too once were the pith of a stone.
The desolate, the heavy earth,
the faded sky is loved by those
who are gladdened by simple beaten grey-
now hoary in a lurking mist.
Not today, I’ve learned to understand
the love of summer storm,
but it were worthless to tell her so.