As she twirls a blood red tulip between her fingers,
dogwood blossoms fall and cling to her hair like snow.
It is deep in Springtime
and midday sunlight filters through new leaves,
making, ever changing, antique lace patterns on her skin.
Teasing my view
I now and then glimpse the efflorescence of her *******
and her body's perfect design.
The Faerie Queen,
strolling, floating, in a wildflower glade amid the newness of the season.
A ****** unknown to her,
through dreamy eyes, I secretly peer, drunk with the vision of her.
Tittled by the nakedness of her toes combing blades of grass,
with her eyes fixed on waxwings in a puddle bath,
she quietly laughs.
Startled, I laugh along with her.
Breaking my silence,
I drop my lyre.
The strings play an eerie dissident chord as I run off to the wood.
My hooves throwing sod,
my hair streaming in the wind.
To the poets who sometimes do not feel inspired, I was inspired to write this poem by falling dogwood petals, and I have always wanted to use the word tittled in a poem
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 1:09 AM UTC
I can feel the compassion rush to my eyes
and a smile breaks the silence of my lips,
as I stare across the table at your empty seat
vivid imagery lends itself to my cause;
My nose is briefly embraced by
the shampoo you so worship with each
flowing strand of your liquid golden locks
and then it's the look in your eyes subtly
telling me things that words can't describe,
telling me things that words don't exist for.
instantly, I'm completely lost swimming
in the ever-blue swirls and twine
that surround your all-seeing retinas
instantly, I'm completely left thinking
of the ever-grey thorns on your spine
and the swirl in the rose that adorns it
These are the things I see
even with you absent
from the seat across from me.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
I might as well destroy if I can't build, and only hope that something rises from the ashes like a Phoenix who's flame burnt out a long time ago.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 11:42 PM UTC
The fires are still burning, the sounds of slow destruction all round
this battlefield is quieter now, still but not silent
the crackling of flames, the stirring of ashes in the wind
sobbing in the distance, almost to far to hear
instantly recognizable
there was no enemy here, a war raged all the same
a screaming brutal conflict of brothers beyond control
all that is left now is a broken, barren idea
an immolated emptiness
I know this field, i know it all to well
this is my mind, my soul - the place i return to endlessly
there was laughter here, once, i think. I cannot be sure
for time, betrayal, loss and pain have made it...
made it something else for so long i can no longer remember
what it may have been before or if there was a before
i must like it here, i feel, this field of empty ashes and dying fires
of cooled anger and forgotten grief
i must like it here, for i return constantly
to surround myself in the freezing, burning contradiction
of emptiness
I think i do like it here, for i choose not to leave
only here can i be
immersed in the self immolation the hurts me so.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 3:55 AM UTC
you told me once
that sleep deprivation
is the equivalent of
seven shots of whisky.
so i drank your words
on tuesday afternoon
and slammed down
seven shots of whisky
on wednesday night
and watched the sunrise
on thursday morning.
the whisky wore off long ago
but i am still here hoping that
if i stay awake long enough
i will stop dreaming
of you.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 3:55 AM UTC
I drifted to the unknown
dream lands of lost cities
and lost, broken Gods.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 3:52 AM UTC