flightsofangels Poetry (7)

His conversations are metallic:
cool, brilliant, reflective –
shining armor smithed for deflection:
I am dazzled, blinded by its glare.
Perhaps the fairytales forgot to mention
that armor only defends the knights,
and isn’t made for girls.

It’s 4 am and I’m still not ready
to think about you yet.
It’s 4 am and my eyes won’t open;
my heart won’t close
(to you).

Today I wind sunflowers into my hair
hoping their glory will bathe me golden
again. On days like these I believe I am nothing
but a sunkissed seraph burning with love unable
to find my way back into heaven.

Franklin & Marshall, Wheaton, Gettysburg...

I thought about the rain yesterday.
It was raining when I found out...
the ground slick with mud; the sidewalk wriggling with worms,
saturated with water, the smell of wet concrete.
I hate the rain.

...Elizabethtown, Susquehanna, Swarthmore...

I cried a little, of course. It's only natural.
The list is long - too long for me.
"An overwhelming number of qualified applicants" it said,
the letter stained with ink. Overwhelming.
Funny, that. I'm "qualified."

...Boston, SUNY, Mansfield...

Now it doesn't really matter, I guess.
I'm here, paying less, earning credits,
except now all I can think of is the ever-present "unless,"
the "what if" and I look toward the future
"what could have been"

...Brown, Penn, Harvard...

What are the odds?
Not good; I guess they never were.
"That's just fate," you say, just the roll of the proverbial dice,
except God doesn't throw dice,
I don't think (enough).

Princeton Princeton Princeton

Dreams are deferred as I am,
thrown to the wind and scattered like rain,
floating for another day, another lifetime.
For now I'm stuck on their piece of paper,
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

He breathes ice-lace on glass;
leaves dew-crystalled footprints
on stiff green grass.

Those bridges you burned
are cinders now, but ashes
still stop my breath.

Sometimes, my daydream dramas flit before my eyes,
insubstantial wishes that pull my lips in an upward curl.
I see acceptances to orange-painted ivory towers,
daily strolls along the pebbled coast of le grand bleu,
but, guiltiest of all, the fantasy of entwined fingers,
the dream, the wish, the sheer impossibility of you.