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Oh dear!
--
So sheer!
--
No coverage
In the rear!
Testing to see if this post gets seen or just disappears into thin air...
So many poems from other writers not showing up on my stream page.
the *** was good
She loved to swallow. Even
from the ******. Had
a real fetish with it

They passed out eventually
in each other’s
arms
and somewhere towards
the morning he
woke up with a blade in the
gut

It twisted hard

He gasped for air
and watched her eyes, demanding
an explanation

Her response was a shrug. “Just
wanted to see what it
feels like. I think I
love it.”

He didn’t survive
and she faced no real consequences

The world is full of fetishists

some girls like to
swallow *** and carve their
partners up for fun

and some men
like to hook up with
psych ward patients

There never was a time in history
when madness was not
romanticized
and idolized
and alluring as sin
https://drbogdan.home.blog/2020/12/10/the-world-is-full-of-fetishists/
Fall becomes Winter.
Time changes. Time rearranges.
Each season provides its own challenge.

A shaving becomes a beard.
The snow falls. The snow piles.
Snowballs gain momentum and grow.

A scratch becomes an ache.
I can't breathe. I can't swallow.
I won't last long but this will last forever.

The cold becomes pneumonia.
I have coughing fits. I have blockage.
Phlegm builds an island to be marooned upon.

Habitation becomes hibernation.
The animals escape. The animals sleep.
They wait for the light to shine on them once more.

Mitigation becomes migration.
The birds fly away. The birds fly South.
As they flee their wings push cold air down toward us.

Winter becomes Spring.
I have become someone else.
A man who has felt another Winter.
lying in bed, I watch
as the sun's fickle light
bleeds translucent gold
between branches, recalling
    your soft warnings  
not to stare      longingly
at sunsets, but,
I've spent a lifetime
being reckless,
falling in love with gilded
rays I could not keep,
going blind from wanting
affection's abundant
return; it seems
  there's no tame remedy
for loving
           with a poet's heart.
I may believe that
the sky has always been
painted in orange-pink
strokes,
melting into lavender as the day goes

But that the leaves
have always mellowed
into a warming gold?

And that the sun
has always burned behind
them as it grows old?

The truth is a parcel hidden
at my door: The dying year
always gifted such sights.

To gaze breathlessly,
at views heavenly, was always
in my rights.

Did I search with eyes too tired and sore?
No, it is simpler:

I never looked before
She whispered this to me softly,
"I know the birds really love you"
When we two rubbed shoulders
As if it was by chance, when
All eyes were busy on other things.

"Were you spying on me, may I ask?"
I faigned hurt, just to add a needed drama,
In fact I was glad she had found out  a thing,
That stands me apart in a crowd like this.

"Strolling in the park, I chanced upon you,
And curiously watched how the birds
Thronged on branches under which you sat,
I guess you are  an ace  player of chess
Who knows what to move how and when"

With curious eyes I peered  at her and
Felt wonder;she knows something
About me that I wasn't really aware of
Though I had enough reasons to suspect it.
Though in one thing she went wrong,
I never was one believed in secret moves
Never was one adept in what, when, how
Part of things, but sought mystery
That nature brings at every turn!

Weren't birds my best friends I recognized
They found something in me that they loved
But thought it all so normal a matter, till
She found out the esoteric bond we shared.

Perhaps she is right, or the opposite, wrong
How much of us is hidden from ourselves
I stood undecided, she lets out the secret,
"Do you know you have hidden wings?"
At that precise moment I find she too has wings.
Bird esoteric bond drama spying. Love mystery secret longing
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