Till The end of Time. By: Rosemarie. (Writer/Poet)


Till The end of Time, until Time stops It's Count. You Told Me that You would love Me. You told me that our love as The North Star would never die. The walks along The Bridge. Hands of Mother of Pearl, of Oyster Shell. The Water is considerate to our conversations. Never talking over us. It pays not attention to our scribbles of laughter or my tears of belief. But yet the naysayers to the corner stare with eyes of bitter and lips of sweet. We Pay them No Mind, Our Youth, Our in God We Trust, brings forth This Melancholy, This more than just Lust. From Canals we were born and into the grave We shall go. But in the meantime, on this night, in the days to follow and the years which will bring forth our Seeds of Root. On This Bridge our lives will extend. Meaning has taken on a new name. Kisses have grown up. What gets left behind will follow and what is brought forth Shall come up even Stronger. The Strength in your letters which came once per month. They brought You back to me. In my nights of dented pillows and soaked tissue. War is an unkind stranger to me. You say not to worry. That You know it's weakness and that Your return will neither drag on nor be in vain. I try to explain this to A Two Year Old with blonde curls and blue eyes like The Aurora Lights. She scribbles her laughter and I scribble the ink across the paper, smearing the print with unsteady fingers of sweat. I haven't the words they have left me. They wait for You back at the bridge on that night where we knew a love which most will never find. Many a time I've had to tear up the letters that I had written to You. The Paper which My Words are written upon is no longer plyable from the tears where Oceans run dry. But Yet at Our Bridge I Stand once more. And the words and the used up paper falls over the side of our bridge. My finger tips can no longer bear the weight of the heaviness to which my heart has now to for so many years. I stare at our little girl with blonde curls and blues like the aurora lights. She is no longer just two. Time has turned her now into a grown Woman of twenty two. I stare at the lovers Who pace their steps so evenly by. Unsure if they notice my eyes of bitter and my lips of sweet. Unkind War. A stranger I would never shake hands with. Nor shall I ever forgive You for taking My Love from My Arms. From My Sight. I See You for what You Are. Just A Taker of Lives. 10 fingers, 10 toes where 20 ought.