The buttery eye of a butterfly caught my sigh slipping shy to the windowsill where your lips spill insomnia powering watermills undefeated by the modern Don Quixotes. My muse breathes in higher frequency... I'm telling her to stop... Stop. My thoughts don't rely on my lungs anymore for they have organs of their own... as well as separate agendas. They paint you psychedelicate, frail and yet invincible. Murderously vulnerable. Violently tender. The hunted is the hunter. The femme fatale.
We all should be in the company
Of beauty, of all kinds
Women are art in the form of beings
Those filled with fire,
With a soul that burns and burns
The ones who turn into music
Those who paint in dreams
Till the sun comes up
Telling stories with their movement
Dancing to the sound of the wind
Beauty & intelligence & the love of life
All in one, laying on the sand
Feeding on the wonders of the world
Capturing passion through the eyes
As the water floats over their skin
Sing to me, sing to me
somewhere in distant
horizons breathes my muse.
dawn comes to me in a dream.
while the sun's early rays
he widens his soft brown eyes, he smiles…
darkness hands me my landscape
in silence as i breathe, staring,
my heart is carried along this imaginary line.
as he sips his cup,
warm within this daylight glory,
the morning adores him and he smiles…
a glimmer, a faint hint of light i see
of grapefruit bubbles and raspberry tea,
like fireflies on the midnight hill.
he strides his fingers across the curtains,
running his hands through his hair, sighing softly, gazing away at
blue morning grandeur skies, and he smiles…
pastels in yellow flow around my scene
and i relish in the comely gold light for at last,
across the distance, we are gazing at the same sun,
and he smiles…
How I wish I could lay my head
down gently on your thighs,
to make you moan and sigh aloud
and slowly close your eyes.
How I wish I could use my tongue
and give you more than rhyme,
to bring a flush up to your cheek,
of feelings beyond space and time.
How I wish that I could speak
in words of feathered certainty
and so entice your curious mind
to lay down with me for eternity.
© Pagan Paul (2017)
For the Muse I have yet to meet.
For the Lady I have yet to undress.
For the Lover I have yet to eat.
For the Goddess I have yet to impress.
I continue searching for you.
Your hair is lava that springs from the earth
Your smile is the moon that glows ‘pon the hearth
And every vapor of your body reminds me of the sea
Teeming with life, electrifying!
O, how you walk with dalliance, perfect like a sunflower
that blooms every May
While your lips are cherries—of course ‘twould be sweet!
But if there’s one thing I most admire
Like music from a lire
It is your eyes
Which makes me want to cry.
Spectral in heaven as climbs
the frail veiled moon
So climbs my dreams
So yesterday in father's exquisite garden
where crystal water's flowing, flowing
flowing from an adorned goddess fountain
and amongst lovely flowers blooming
blooming, blooming, blooming
i inquire of father, my father whom i adore
my loving father, the king of all dreams
daydreams, night dreams and fantasies
Father, from whence does dreams come?
and he explains this mysterious mystery
Of little messages from muses eluding
more than some,
dream messages so mysterious to me
And my father the king of all dreams replies,
"All dreams love, my child whom I adore
are designed from a fine misty mist
As pure as pure and as fine as fine can be
Caught betwixt dimensions of timeless time
and heaven's fine pure line of divinity,
As any fine misty mist is purer than pure
and finer than any of finest sunlight
And like sunlight slips through our grasp
yours and mine my dear you see,
such is our dreams and such is time,"
says father, "betwixt reality and infinity
Dreams of every origin and means my child
dreams of light and dreams of darkness
are spun only by mysterious dream weaver
Dreams are yours and dreams are mine
dreams are everyones"
And so contemplatively, i inquire of father,
"father, now i'm more puzzled than ever,
how does dream weaver spin so many dreams?"
And father replies, "an interesting question,
my child, and one I must ask dream weaver"
and still i am puzzled
The sultry evening falls like the silk upon my shoulders
I kiss your throat as you write to your mother
It conflicts you, does it not?
The memory of her weeping and the very act of your hands
One clutching your pen, the other gliding over the inside of my thigh
Both ever so foolishly stained in the purest of black
It certainly conflicts me, my love, for all my tender heart longs for is this:
Grip my hair, press me harder onto your lap, blacken me
Let me see the sweetest stars—
And may they be sweeter than the relish of raspberries upon my mouth
Write to your mother about me
I shall kiss you for it
And thus, as we clasp hands dreamily, become your muse
maybe we're all
a little bit tired of
fighting for things
that aren't changing
maybe we're all
about the people
we failed to love
maybe we just need
a little more hope in
our heads when we
go to sleep tonight
maybe i'm just rambling
like a madman unhinged
& nobody will hear what
i'm actually trying to say
This goes out to you
Whether the world knew it
You're a real person
Instead of this fiction
But the truth:
If you were fiction
You couldn't have hurt me
We spent 6 long years together
Forming our bond, growing close
You were not just someone to me
Not anyone could
Make me feel like this
You are EVERYTHING to me
You are the only
one in seven billion
To make me feel real
Without you my
Body exists with a mind adrift
The sad thing is
If you come back to me
I'll welcome you
Straight to my arms
Never left my heart