All The Things You Once Were Poem by Keiran Bateman

The watercolour world drips,
down your old lady's wall.
Let the lines blur, fade
into one. Stutter the story,
soliloquy of what it could be,
let go.

It's a pursuit for the regretful.
It's the silent beauty, Quiet Thing,
clasped in the trembling hands.
She gave it to you.

Did you find it?
You could feel it all. In one whisper,
On the right,
neon night. Try.

Lean back,
Into me and against the breeze.

The wind whistles,
sings,
a symphony, a howling pain, or
a stillness to 3am dew.
Do you feel the rain on your summer skin?

If you can't, just run.
You'll find it somewhere.

I'd show you.

I would light the fireworks in your tired eyes.
You could tell me what these battered,
bruised knuckles keep writing.

What I write; what if it doesn't mean anything,
Quiet Thing?

Not even for a second would you,
unravel your fingers from beneath mine when,
the tides crash at the foot of your river;
the wall,
threatens to crumble at any semblance
of touch,
the bricks so old and so lonely,
not used to such passion, such
violence.

Don't let them take it.
The last ember, Quiet Thing,
They'd love to put it out.

Don't let them.