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 Feb 2018 Brittney T
Rachel Dyer
I fell in love today.
With a man I'd never met.
He had a power over me, what can I say?
Oh, he's a hero, don't you fret.
He is tall, and witty, and debonaire.
He saved me from the bandits with his flashing swordplay.
All the while the sun glinting on his hair.
Then he took me back to his castle on page 109.
When he crowned me there was so much applause the walls shook!
I cannot wait to see what happens on the next line,
because my lover and I are one on the pages of this book.
One of the many realities I have escaped to in my time.
Reading, a pleasant distraction that cultivates ones mind.
It is so deliciously good, pleasure at its prime.
The characters I've met have taught me how to love and hate, how to be cruel and to be kind.
I have won battles, and lost friends.
I have made love with Vikings, and danced with mermaids.
And it almost always makes me weep when a book ends.
Then it's back to the bookstore on one of my story raids.
I can't wait to slip between the pages.
The ink to my mind like silk to my skin.
There I will meet heroines, criminals, and sages.
Between each set of covers a new life will begin.
Flip the pages and inhale the drug.
the fine biblichor that sends my head spinning.
A fine way at the end of the day to unplug.
A new book, the best way to get me grinning.
Blustery wind howling, whimpering
Creating the silence of the arctic
Wintery desolation sounds jingling
Breathing coziness, feeling mystic

Hazy sunlight relentlessly shimmering
Idyllic nature soothes the traveler
Zippy morning tremendously lingering
Rhythmic chillness of winter
When I was six,
I didn't tie my shoelaces,
not because I didn't know how to
but because I didn't have shoes back then,
so I wore my father's old shoes
after many years of his death,
ragged from all sides.
Though my little toes
fitted in them just fine
they never gave me the comfort
that I craved from my father's side.
I would walk down the street
on wintery mornings of December
in my father's shoes
while the chilly wind
played hide and seek with my feet.
~~©Dhiman
Childhood memories are never old...
I thought you were hiding
behind your tears,
the little droplets
that ran down your cheeks
and caressed your lips,
but little did I know
the pain you held
within your chest
telecasted through
your silent cries.

~~©Dhiman
Some cries are covered in smiles...look behind them and you'll witness pain like never before...
Life is a miracle.
The day you understand it,
You'll start to live.

---Dhiman
The baby sun,
washed by the sea,
smiling at
the snow filled mountains
less brightly,
than the summer mornings.

 Younger
than the moonlit nights,
it artfully kisses
and embraces
the forehead of 
the sleeping stars.

~~©Dhiman
 Feb 2018 Brittney T
trf
Met a girl in Memphis,
home to Mississippi,
4am to Tunica or Tupelo,
I got lost in the mix of it.

She stole my breath that morning, knocked the wind out of me,
lost the lights of the discotheque,
we were pollinating free.

Psilocybin chocolates and silk *******, stars as far as eyes could see,
city lights replaced by fireflies,
the Delta's soul soothes a detoured man's decree.

Scent of perfume or poison,
could have been the peonies,
moon shined on domestic horses,
staring back cautiously.

Breeze sang static harmonies through the telephone wires,
And we whispered our hearts desires.

If you asked us,
about the world back then,
We'd have a laugh for an answer for you my friend.
 Feb 2018 Brittney T
Merry
How sweet it must be
To be loved by a poet
Beauty and laughter immortalised
In honeyed prose
For those
Whom you will not know
Whom you will not meet
Only those whom you will dream of
Only those who will sigh over
Your grace, your love
From the honeyed mouth
Of the poet who had chosen you
As their muse

How sour it must be
To be hated by a poet
Ugliness and rage immortalised
In destroyed prose
For those
Whom you will know
Who you will meet
Only those who will see you
Only those who will cry over
Your disdain, your wrath
From the dry mouth
Of the poet who had chosen you
As their muses

The pantheon of muses
The poet possesses
Will never reveal themselves to the reader
But the reader will already know the glory and infamy
Of the muses the poet possesses
The lovers
Perfection personified
Only known to the unconscious mind
With faces unknown
The enemies
Imps of imperfection
Already known to the waking realm
With more faces than that which can be counted

How bitter it must be
To be a poet
Glorifying and horrifying mistakes
In quickened prose
For those
Whom you love
Whom you hate
Only those who will read of you
Only those who will ignore you
My emotions, my consequences
From the careless mouths
Of the ones who had chosen the poet
As their acquaintance
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