& in this resonance of self-mutilation,
beneath crystallized windowsills & broken needles,
I found redemption.
every Sunday evening her image is spilled in front of my very eyes.
I can taste her tender soul & caress her juvenile smile;
she whispers my name, succumbing.
& I see her; through her.
She lies beneath silver linen & broken atmospheres.
She's wisdom in blinded eyes.
I exhale.
& as I glance deeper into the reflecting abyss I find myself in wonder;
Is she who I search for,
or is she who I sense to be?
.... I still wonder, who is she....
guess I'll never know.
Nov 3, 2011
Nov 3, 2011 at 12:06 AM UTC
Genuine conversations
were passion's static overblown
through classical lover's eyes.
i.
Confessing unrevealed tries
in variation with grieving cries.
Sighs and moans were touched
and savored everyday, at the same place.
ii.
Unexpected completions
were deviously divulged over
The temptress' despair, while cardboard
arrogance compressed within aluminum kisses.
iii.
Chemical liquids were drawing attention,
fingertips quivering at the sight of your eyes.
Palpable tension cutting through the styrofoam walls,
that we gently established to separate this sweet seduction.
iv.
Demolition began once playful vengeance intervened.
No longer did the requiem delay its flow and crunch,
for its succulent grin was painted on his chest
and carried on his hands.
v.
Cards were drawn to encaustic wax papers,
captivating lover's delight.
With sudden frustration, we searched evanescently,
for a piece of carton to hide from the fiery rains.
vi.
While puzzled Questionnaires were imprinted on catatonic embraces,
we both gnawed on the bone for answers;
barking gently at our feet, we tangled with uncompromising pretenses,
giving ourselves multiple aberrations with heartbreaking waves.
Tonight I cuddle the thorns and the knives,
contemplating lethargic affections,
infected with veracity's confection,
ignoring the ideal that I fell unfulfilled.
Nov 3, 2011
Nov 3, 2011 at 12:03 AM UTC
Cataracts in this woven cavity
abstracting any possibilities for those what if stories.
chasing pavements of a burning after glow
you seem to love me better when I expect from you the worst.
Textile appeal becomes a reluctant approval
of what your eyes profess and what your lips have sealed.
Salt on the wounds that resist to heal;
barbarous attempts to suppress those skipping heartbeats.
I do not ask much in return for your favor
not much but a clean look in my eye;
purge out what you **** in
and with all the stories, mercy me-
-Mercy me for irrevocably admiring
your intense appeal and your pretentious heart;
which to whom you play roles of Ares
to only discover Aphrodite's mark.
Mercy me softly and do you not destroy me
far beyond subliminal repair;
Do not bewilder me a wanderer
but mostly, do not condemn my heart to clutter.
Mercy me if your words have any meaning
and your eyes are not of all deceiving; mercy me.
Profess what your eyes confess but your lips have sealed
and mercy my poor heart for loving you so.
Oct 24, 2011
Oct 24, 2011 at 11:55 PM UTC