The House With Christmas Lights. #Poetry

The House With Christmas Lights | A Poem About Unconditional Love, Silent Suffering & Quiet Devotion.

I am in the eye of this cold tornado,
As I watch myself flying away from him,
I keep trying to think and think it through,
Perhaps it shall become my fatal blow,
Learning, eventually, confronting myself alone,
Sitting quietly as the snowfall falls,
A warmth keeps reaching through my open window
While scattered papers drift across the hall.
As far as I know,
I am standing at love’s last show.

Yet my hands keep sewing a road back to you.
I see your tethered and tainted home,
Paint falling off, yet softly lit aglow,
Christmas lights hanging gently and low,
while the roof kept falling, brick by brick, unbearably slow.
Yet a shining disco ball steals the show,
Fresh green grass resting near the porch below,
Screws coming loose, yet warmth continues to grow,
And I see him holding it, holding it all, 
My handsome baby is still smiling at the door.

Darling, I am here at the behest of my love,
Though perhaps you may ask me to shut up.
Even if you do, my storms will never reach you,
I would shield you the same way I once hid the truth,
The same way I protected my feelings
when they turned every shade of blue.

I see you draining out slowly, too.
Carving words upon yourself — 
Danger, impure, unworthy of view.
I do not know how long you have endured
A pain I somehow ache through too.

In pain, I hear your cries too,
With pain, I sit through your silences too.

So each time my hands reach for you,
I silence my storms before they even break through,
Not out of sympathy, but because it aches to view
How softly you whisper your silent pleas,
Holding onto hopes buried for years,
Those sleepless nights, your body freeze,

Perhaps alone upon your knees,
You pray to your Lord through hidden tears,
Like a sincere man nobody sees.

As night passes and the green church gleams,
Unrehearsed words unravel into dreams,
Thoughts entangled into one another,
While quietly, you sew together pieces of yourself.

So maybe fate may someday soften not just the bruise,
but also the sharp-edged scars carved by others’ cruelty, too.

With each passing hour,
I see you dismantling your confused emotions,
Sometimes crafting sincerest, sometimes dreamy
delicate sketches of the past,
Only to eventually tear them to shreds
While known faces, they continue to talk and allege.

And I see you. I see those softly disappointed eyes.
I see my baby gently folding up the edges,
A ritual he performs when his chaos stretches,
While his demons shout violently
Inside storms only he can see.

Still, he places himself upon a pedestal,
Touching people gently with warm hands alone.
A sacred sight, I see,
A gentleman, endlessly.

I see my baby turning himself inhuman
So everyone else may feel more human.

If you enjoyed this poem, you might love Perhaps, it was love — a collection of verses on longing, love, and the spaces in between.

Buy my book: Perhaps, it was love (https://sandhyaarya.gumroad.com/l/lbxqp)
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