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The time has come,

Night must fall.

A softened chill,

Sweeps over all.

The stars come out,

And start to glisten.

Silence rings,

For those who listen.

The Flower sits calmly,

Closing to rest.

Just as the Moon,

Reveals its crest.

An uncanny connection,

The feeling of Love.

‘tween the Flower below,

And the Moon up above.

With beams of light,

The Moon does proclaim.

It’s love for this being,

Fragile and tame.

But no matter how thin, 

The petals may seem.

To this sweet Flower, 

‘Tis but a dream.

I can tell you however,

though the Sun offers kisses.

It is the Moon, dear friends,

The Flower truly misses.
She paces the floors of that empty house
like a feral animal - caged.
Alone in darkness
the hours drag on; nothing stirs,
or is she the one truly sleeping?
Wandering through solemn shadows, dreaming
there is music carved on her walls
as forgotten as nails
left behind -
by whom?
None shall know.
Her morose, hollow voice sings along
with no tune and no ending.
Detached notes strung together
run across the wallpaper,
through the floorboards,
but never through the door.
Her body dances in rays of moonlight
like a marionette controlled by chains.
She longs to join the stars,
flickering sparks of light in a sea of dark,
if only she could reach.
Restrained, she flows in free pattern
faster, faster
until imagination gives her wings.
Her spirit stretches then,
reaching for those stars.
 Oct 2013 Alicia Pena
Tim Knight
she lent over the bed rail,
wooden and put together by her husband.

without the book she recited the tale,
word perfect and rehearsed and she quickened

with the story, picking up the pace
to the bit where she placed her engagement ring upon my face,

the nose to be precise, and it smelt
of every perfume kiosk in every shopping hall and mall.

the ***** cat said to the owl, in the sequel to the story-
and for another bedtime completely-

'you're the cherry on the tree, un-pick-able
by hand or bird, stay with me please,
I heard marriage doesn't last forever'
from >>> Coffeeshoppoems.com
 Oct 2013 Alicia Pena
Tim Knight
For the girl with the bow in brown hair,

            the heat from the upstairs
restaurant cures the street where we walk,
            the freight’s in on the track,
you can tell by the horns,
            I from the diesel smell below the
afternoon clouds, faint above,
            sometimes when we speak a heart rate
somewhere peaks,
            another graph pinned to an office wall
shows this clear,
            sometimes when we talk tense chests
fear the answer you may say,
            the graph strays past paper and onto
those office walls, in red with a palmed
            smudge where you forgot where
the words ended.

            For the girl with the bow in brown hair,
your eyes are theatre-light reflections in twenty-four hour
window panes sat packed neatly off the corner of West 47th
and 7th, for you’re my central Times Square.
FROM COFFEESHOPPOEMS.COM
 Oct 2013 Alicia Pena
Tim Knight
Your cleavage is the sum
of everything you want to be:
on show and constantly talked about,
but when you have loaded words in
a shotgun mouth, spewing out
miscellaneous shells to the nobodies
of your street, then you’ll
fail to become that gap between your *******.

Keep quiet and remain dressed;
having numbers next to friends
is a contest you win at,
but count on your hands the mouths
that like you, and you’ll realise you’re
alone.
coffeeshoppoems.com
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