A single page entry
could make a novel
of a thousand pages
written in vanity.
Layla’s diary is kept out of sight
from anyone’s tenacity
to view its delicate words.
It is the gold kept locked
button by button within her being.
There is no combination to this safe.
Just as it is with the soul and mind of body,
where flesh to flesh, bottom lip to upper lip
locked as a secret in her garden of poetry.
Forever perishing within the keeper’s soul,
if her body dies,
her mortal words succumb to death.
As the setting sun makes its last gasp
across a so dimming horizon,
Layla clinched her diary tighter to her chest.
“Is the sun my beating heart
and my fears the night?
My happiness sinks into the tomb that is the dusking horizon!”
Suffering a sting
of tear streams down her so delicate cheek,
her brunette hair swayed in the path of the northerly gusts.
The last touch of the sun’s rays
sunk into its watery grave,
tenacious rays screaming desperately
not to be buried alive beneath the lid of the twilight.
Her moment was on her heart’s last flicker
Layla asks herself aloud;
“Fate, within the pre-ordained future will constrain me?”
Oh, the receding daylight of the coming winter has arrived!
Only vanity finds itself warm in that of the oppressive night!
As of now her sun has drowned.
Decaying into the eerie night within its forbidding cold,
the nails of the coffin lid have been hammered.
The journey of glacial tears has
left scarring paths of black eye shadow.
Each tear icing down her numb cheeks.
The snow of the coming winter had come.
The arctic breaths Layla felt on her neck
have begun to set in and provoke a prompt death.
Layla knows she’ll await more deaths of her daystar.
There she stood on the edge of the rocky cliffs
witnessing the serene waves softly coming in.
Then they’re anger builds and charges
into the jagged rocks just below her; receding swiftly in the undertow.
Her soul; her island, beaten by constant waves of sorrows,
she’ll stand sorrowfully alone every wintry sunset
waiting for a warm breath on her neck
that’ll never come.
Her hair, dark and rich
as the earth in her dieing rosebush garden,
sways over her tear soar cheeks,
defending them from the gust’s relentless assaults.
The rosebush garden
Layla had teared over
feels the shock of early morning frost.
Fresh roses that once possessed the incense
to manipulate anger to love,
has begun to wither beneath
dominations of the chill of reality.
The new season
had brought the incense of battle
with no sense.
Can Layla sing?
A string of a note
makes the early morning bird flee in envy.
Would that cause her rose petal to bud
into her long-awaited peace?
Even so in her youth,
Layla had lost her velvety voice from long disuse.
She can speak to the world only by her gentle eyes.
She has a diary in her keeping that forever immortalizes her.
It is a diary of gothic poetry, holding her innermost desires
of adventure, sex, love and most of all… acceptance.
Poetry that possesses such precision
the absent minded feel the sting.
Aspiring sorrow in a diary
she fits quietly beneath her skin,
from the judgmental ways of the cold world
beyond her soul’s paradise.
The late night brought out the sleepless owl
and the shadows of the light house towered
over her long-lived home.
As the midnight air was crisp and sky starlit,
the cold once again held its reputation
of pursuing the warmth to hibernation
and frosting her roses to death.
Layla’s love for the day seemed to be nothing more than a vainful tragedy! Never shown love or compassion.
She grew up without her mother
but beneath the dark wing of her abusive father.
Layla had always given lenience to her father
when he would have one of his many tantrums.
He had never physically abused her,
it was emotional abuse. She just wanted love.
She just wanted to heal his soul of misfortunes
that he’s punished her for.
She just wanted to make him bold and powerful
as a man or woman should be.
She had no reason to.
She had always showed love when embracing him.
However, the heat and cold bonded
to make a fog that neither could find the other.
She then suffered a tear stream to the owl’s call
in the piercing light beam of the lighthouse.
As the midnight air was crisp and starlit, the cold once again held its same reputation to coat her flower buds with tomblike frost.