One-Third
you mold me out of clay
the nights you feel alone
my God created day
but his heart is made of stone
your kiss tastes like steel
cold yet cogent
his honey eyes reveal
I'm just a fraction of a moment
chosen by the Creator
I am at a loss for words
but my beautiful dictator
only loves me in thirds
one-third of a heart
yields a love limited
you ignore my art
to see what else is exhibited
I am warm
but you are ice
two-thirds of my heart torn
but I am easy to entice
I run from God
my full heart in my hands
no longer a slave to the facade
you did not meet my demands
I don’t follow a king
to feel complete
I am reborn in the spring
my three-thirds beat
Regarding Poems
I'm tired of poems
and the never-ending rhymes,
that only seem to come
at the darkest of times.
The words that chase me
when I walk at a steady pace,
the rhymes that stab me
as their rhythm reminds me of your face.
The poems that pick up the paint
and splatter me a reality,
of a world so faint
it lacks actuality.
As if I forgot
a fleeting moment in time,
when I was left to rot
and your words lacked rhyme.
I guess I run from verses
but they’re all that I seek,
and a poem’s curse is
it makes the past seem sleek.
But yesterday is not as beautiful
as words make it out to be,
so poems are suitable
only if one knows what to see.
Fire is Fleeting
A modern candle with its youthful glow,
two twin flames bathe in the soft morning sun.
Flames collide as the Earth spins ever-slow,
their kiss cements wax: two flames become one.
The clock’s cold hand waves the seconds goodbye,
flames shiver as winter bleeds into fall.
Rivers of wax slowly stream from their eyes,
dreaming of days where their fires stood tall.
Though flames cease when snow greets the fallen leaves,
wax hardens with the touch of winter’s frost.
A candle reborn, now safe from flame thieves,
unlit in the night and thought to be lost.
Yet none point out how she wears her new skin
and blew out her flame to find light within.
Friendship
I used to write you letters containing words of honey.
Sweet like the future we held in our palms,
pure like our eyes who knew no harm.
Words were left unsaid along the way,
honey seeped through the distance and slithered away.
The empty spaces carved holes in our letters,
the future obscured like the sun in bad weather.
The growth of our seed is at a halt,
no longer sprouting but it’s nobody’s fault.
Planted years ago in our garden of youth,
our seed sits waiting for us to find our truth.
I trust the sun and the rain to keep it well-fed,
and the moon to sing when the sun has fled.
I am not in a rush to find you once more,
I trust the distance I no longer abhor.
Through the plants in the garden of our juvenescence,
we will reunite someday and speak of the lessons;
the lessons we learned through the stairway of life,
in search for the honey that fills us with spice.
About the Author: Karla Fidalgo is an 18 year old senior in high school living in Miami, Florida. Coming from a family of Cuban immigrants, Karla is the first member of her family to study in the United States education system. Through her years of education, she has built a unique and passionate relationship with writing and literature. She hopes the pieces shared with you provide comfort as the COVID-19 pandemic continues to bring discomfort.
