You do not puncture promise.
it is not some balloon,
filled with hot air.
It does not take off,
when I arrive. I do not,
crane my neck. My eyes do not search.
A ritual. The circle was made,
you left the blade at the altar,
spilled from our lives,
This sea of red, our hearts,
jointed together like ligaments and tendons.
Like hurt and happiness.
You do not puncture the hearts center.
Not when you promised the pitcher.
The elixir of eternity;
That bubbled and fizzed,
waiting to erupt as time,
folds, over timeless crackling.
Think - a promise,
broken does not decay,
it is as fresh,
As a promise fulfilled.
Petals would have spread from the heart,
had you kept yours.
But now those bees buzz in anger.
Nothing sweet about the nectar,
filling the liars breast.
That spill. That spill.
Was there something in your eye?
Here, let me pick it out!
You wretch! You're terrible,
too terrible. My tide doesn't,
fall for your petty tricks.
And I am livid,
The Queen of the nest,
sacred honeycomb of health.
My precious little pearls, all yellow,
buzzing around my heart,
to protect me from your spiked pain.
But promise is an opening,
straight for the valves pumping love,
in streams of burning blaze.
Yet - should I have known? -
You, who would pull back that promise,
unveiling the leeches that come.
Straight from the liars tongue.
To feast - a full heart, so full of,
what you lack, and even empty,
A drop of me carries more weight,
than your entire body, for I rise,
like the water in the sea.
So off, the leeches come,
one at a time,
And somehow I will find -
Promise in empty, your hollow,
only just shy, an inch from death,
but love, in my eyes,
You could already be a grave-marker.
For the Queen rises from her honey-comb,
to take back her prize.
That promise broken is worse than death.
It is the darkness of your mind. Hollow of your heart.
At least the dead have something to look forward too.
A Promise Broken: by Christian Gould
