I miss her most on days like this

I miss her most on days like this: A Poem by Keith M. Survell

I miss her most on days like this
When the cold wind comes whipping off the mountain,
Burning my ears and face.

I miss her most when the morning stillness covers me
And still-frightening dreams echo in my ears
But in those dreams I have her, hold her.
Why should I wake, only not to have her?
I must fight to wake from these tortured dreams.

I miss her most when there are many people
Or no people around me.
I long to be alone but not lonely.

I hear much from these people. They tell me many things.
I hear of their loves, and how they make it or do not make it,
And I long to tell them of the love I have, the great love,
But they would not understand.
“She’s not here now, is she?” they would say.
Then they would ask,
“Did you get it? Did you do it?”

And I must say no, for these things are not important to us.
A true love is more than these things, these physical desires.
Though we had the desire, stronger than most could imagine.
We longed to fulfill our desires every waking moment,
Yet I see now it was our souls we truly longed to touch.

Sometimes I think it would be best
If I were to go to some high place and let myself fall
Be free for those moments
Or breathe the water
In which I bathe.
The dreamy sleep of the seas.

Some days my body breaks, my mind breaks,
But there is one piece that stays sane
It builds back my mind
It builds back my body
And I go on again, with the memory of her.

I miss her most at times like this, when the darkness fills the room.
False dreams call to me like a lovers song
Beckoning me to that beautiful world of tortured dreams.
It is at times like these that I think of her most strongly…

And I wonder what I will do,
Now that she is dead.

A Cold Iron Hand

A Cold Iron Hand – A Poem by Keith M. Survell.

A cold iron hand clamps its grip about her
There is no life here
Icy sheets of terror
Bound about by white chains.

How she longs to escape from this prison!
To breathe the air again
To breathe the air again

  • – freely.

All about a cold and dreary world looks down upon her face
and does nothing.

A stillness of your own heart
When from nightmares and dreams you awake
Frightens you
Entraps you
You are now bound as she

In white chains.