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The water pulls back and forth,
It's wild and calm and beautiful,
I want to live there,
In all of that controlled chaos,
I'm leaning against the golden rail,
The lights are shining behind me,
The musics humming in my ear,
People pass by me,
They try to interact with me,
But they don't interest me at all.
All that ocean air is wrapped in my hair,
It's curling at the ends,
I'm suffocating in the smell,
I swear it'd be the happiest death I'd ever see,
Now a hand is on the small of my back,
I don't dare turn around,
His contact against my skin
feels just like getting lost at sea,
His scent and the water,
The whisper of his voice against the wind,
My knees are buckling,
I'm on stilts a thousand feet tall,
Is my temperature really rising,
How does he do this to me?
I pull closer to the cool rail,
I use it to balance myself,
I try to seem calm and cool,
But everything I love is standing on both sides of me,
And I'm wanting to let go,
Falling rapidly into them,
But his arm goes around my waist,
I'm sinking into his hand,
I'm doomed.
He's right there staring into the water,
Leaning against the railing,
The boat has us both a little unsteady where we stand,
But I've never been so planted,
I've never loved like this,
The blue eyes I've came to know so well are shining against the waves,
Then they look at me,
For a moment I lose it,
I cling to his chest,
A chill runs up my spine,
But I'm so warm,
Right there in his arms,
I'm floating along,
I lean in to savor the sensation,
Then with the wind,
There his ghost is gone again,
I lean over the rail,
I did everything to be in his arms again,
Then into both my loves I go,
It's the happiest death I came to know,
Because without him I'm nothing,
Together we're a wave in the ocean,
The high tide on the shore,
Something wild and new,
Don't morn us,
Just look for the boat on the horizon,
That's where we'll be,
Together.
 Oct 2012 Cyril Blythe
Harsh
If I were white, blond and blue eyed, with
long legs, ample ******* and sharp cheekbones...
Or
If I were icy cold, with hardly any soul, and
simply on a mission to use and discard all men...
Or
If I were a lot less chatty and far more witty, said
all the right things and didn't laugh so loudly...
Or
If I were really good at water-polo, swimming, sailing or
some sport, had mastered an art or multiple languages...
Or
If I were the kind to have casual *** and just move on
like nothing ever happened other than casual ***...
Or
If I were more of a chase, played hard to get, and wasn't
automatically responsive to all and any whimsical...
Or
If I were not Me...

                                                          ­                                                              Wou­ld you feel anything for me?
                                                             ­                                                                 ­                      Would you care?
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                                Would you?
This poem is the sole property of me and cannot be copied or used without permission. [Copyright G.H. Rodrigo 23/10/2011]
Cold street, warm pub,
slits like neon--warm up,
smile from chin to jeans,
a warm V, warms me,
sour beer, sweet waitress,
a sad and teased egress.

I form a V with my digits,
and give it a kiss,
exhale hot into air that's frigid.
if only sweet waitress.
Gentle lady, do not sing
Sad songs about the end of love;
Lay aside sadness and sing
How love that passes is enough.

Sing about the long deep sleep
Of lovers that are dead, and how
In the grave all love shall sleep:
Love is aweary now.
Twenty one again,
Rapidly running out of time,
I'll start again and then,
New beginnings will be mine.

Possibility shall be endless,
Youth and potential would engulf us,
The warm red soul would pump,
Through our veins,
Making our ideas lie to be believed.

Oh how I wish I could taste it again,
The love and freedom that made enemies our friends,
The purity and solace and made new things amend.

But such is the wish of a rich man,
A man rich with poverty,
Such is the one of a people,
One that's lost to me.
 Aug 2012 Cyril Blythe
v V v
There   i s
beau tiful
trans-par-
e ncy    in
o u r   un-
s  po ke n
w o r d  s,
no embellished perfection, rather simple contented silence, a deriv-
ative  of  unhappy  places  where spoken words were  once  severing
w e a p o n s,
  a n d  a n y 
  h o p e  o f  
recon- cili-
a t i o n   a
a  c r u c i-
f i x  beam
stret- ched
a   c r o s s
our  backs,
the weight
o f  w h a t
n  e  a r l y
killed    us.
Recently published at The Mind(less) Muse, March 2013
I once was a white rose: pure, perfect, plain.
Then the world did pluck my petals away.
I became blackened by the world’s disdain

Further I fought against the worlds pained
Raze of roses: they won and crushed my stem.
I once was a white rose: pure, perfect, plain.

The gardened battlefield was strewn and stained
With the sweet stench of broken, bullied roses.
I became blackened by the world’s disdain.

The white rose ***** of virginity strained
Against hands calloused by the world’s black sin.
I once was a white rose: pure, perfect, plain.

Despite valiant efforts that were in vain,
We allowed our petals to be torn away.
I became blackened by the world’s disdain.

And you, my worldly gardener, did tame
We white roses out of our innocence.
I once was a white rose: pure, perfect, plain.
I became blackened by the world’s disdain.
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