the view at the end of the lines

a blessing that ricochets off my chest
to fall on my bare toes, scarred and
engraved with the lines of silent sky,
that blessing is what I hold, much like
a dead flower in my palms, watering
as a futile attempt for it to reawaken.

I shut the heart inside a jewel box,
to beat unheard by lines of leisure,
it is like the peeling paint that just
won’t fall, demanding attention of
its decay, hurting eyes, I don’t want
to see anymore, everything in shreds.

there is a view at the end of all lines
that beckons all those lost leaves
plucked away from the home tree,
I am in the midst finding my way
to the chasm where it stops being
of consequence, needed no more.

.

For Sunday Mini-Challenge at With Real Toads. I am also going to link it up with Poetry Pantry at PU.

Image source– It is an oil on canvas by Piet Mondrian.