Squandered Hopes (a Poem)

Yesterday, I mentioned that a potential music project is having a ripple effect on my writing. Today, I share how. 😉

One of my shiny new friends growls and screams in a death metal band. He heard some snippets of my singing (from opera to jazzy), and now we’re discussing a collaboration for a melodic/funeral/doom/death recording project. Will it amount to anything? *shrug* All I know is that there’s a guitarist somewhere composing a tune.

Since we may end up writing lyrics together, my friend and I have been sending each other writing samples, and I’ve been experimenting to find what my lyricist voice is (much like I’ve experimented with my writing voice before, which reminds me that I have the skeleton of a post on that somewhere…) Some of the lyrics he sent me last week struck a chord, so I sat down and wrote my take on the subject and themes.

What came out seems like a poem to me, more than lyrics. That’s okay. It’s an interesting mental exercise to compare his piece and mine, and will certainly help align our writing later.

In the meantime, I’ve made a quick recording of myself reciting the piece. I think it’s better enjoyed that way, but you’ll also find the complete text below the SoundCloud player. 😉


Squandered Hopes

A wind across the arid plains of a heart bared too soon
Dust stirring with memories of caresses yet to come
The fleeting suggestion of a kindred spirit’s tune
Shattered on the craters of promises undone

The words haunting my mind, wings of flightless birds
Delusions of actions you never meant to take
Deception wrapped in beauty, my disillusion girds;
My heart may be weak, but yours will never wake

I caught glimpses of depth in the pool of your eyes
You never stared long enough to see its reflection
Every time I reached out, you hastened your demise
The discontent you spill can’t drown my desolation

May the breeze that roused me carry you away
Out of sighs, out of binds, out where your blinds may break
I doubt you’ll ever see how you’ve led yourself astray
My heart may be bleak, but yours will never wake.


As usual, comments and constructive criticism are welcomed!


About Aheïla

Somewhere in Quebec City, Aheïla works as a Game Design Director by day and writes by night. Known for her blue hair, unyielding dynamism and tasty cooking (quails, anyone?), she’s convinced “prose is the new crack”. She satisfies her addiction daily on The Writeaholic’s Blog and weekly on Games' Bustles View all posts by Aheïla

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