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 Feb 2015 Christopher Lowe
Oberon
the winters
here in montauk
had frozen me
i am now
brittle bones
blood on my lips
lilac veins vivid
on my skin
silvery

i can no longer
count all these
dead nights for
my fingertips
have grown
a little numb

the exact way
the crystal stem
of the limpid glass
between yours
can never grasp
your heat

the very way
that sinful scarlet
liquid bead perch
on your full
crimson lips
unaware of its
good fortune

precisely the way
that beauty on the
other end of the
table veiled
burnt sienna
will cravingly gaze
into your worried eyes
but only one of
two hearts
will glow

the other will remain
mundane
and mine will always
**yearn
"i’m more and more afraid
because i’m not like myself before.
i’m scared to see myself getting weaker.
without you, even the air around me is heavy."
(edited. thanks for the input! ♡)
And if I could ever write a poem that would embody
Your love
i swear
I would

but

Whenever I'd try to write You down
And immortalize You through words
I end up with a blank page staring at me
Because my words do not give justice
To the beauty of You and Your creation
 Feb 2015 Christopher Lowe
ryn
Flame
 Feb 2015 Christopher Lowe
ryn
.
•    
re-
     kindle
    the spark
   that governed
    this game•the fire
  that once burnt as bri-
  ght as sun•all of this once
before, had a name•but now
is weak from the time it had be-
gun•there was a time when it wo-
uld consume•......it would defy the
odds....just so it could burn as one•
frantic and desperate for the magic
to resume•uncertainty has carved
itself into the heart that has come
undone•winds bearing ill no-
tions revealed as the enemy•
stitch up the gaps keep-
ing out the rogue
gust•
  pro
tect
  the
light that burns ever weakly•rejuve-
nate the spirit that harbours broken trust
•rekindle me now... i'm still in the game•
the heart                   save the     you will
isn't                              candle           need
ready                           and              to see
to make                         nur-              me    
sense                            ture             with
of the                             it                 this
dark•                             to                  in-  
                                    fla-              sig-  
                                   me•             nia
                                     ­                     as my
                                                         mark
                                                         •
.
It was the way you carried yourself,
as if universes scratched at your shoulders
and the care you kept neatly inside
was killing you slowly.

I remember the words you spoke
as if they were poking, pressing
at your already bruised ribs;
as if they climbed up your throat
holding ice hooks and torches.

I buried them deep as they'd go
in the sweat-drenched sheets,
hoping you wouldn’t remember
or want  to search for them.

But one night I awoke
to an unfamiliar breeze,
those sheets untangled and draping
halfway out the open window.


I'm sorry I couldn't keep you safe.
Stephen Hawking in a fantasy rush
once thought the universe would max its tether,
turn a mighty one eighty back toward
the starting gun and run the show in reverse.

What if it were really so?

Would a butterfly return to pre-chrysalis days,
crawl backwards on stalks and un-munch leaves?

Would Frost back-step up that diverged path
to ponder his options anew?

Would we have to jettison those data cards
that school has stuffed inside us
and retreat to our amniotic broth?

What if it were really so?

Uh oh, here come the terrible lizards
back for a curtain call.
Don't you think it's getting awfully hot?

What if it were really so?

Imagine if you can, the silence following the
great "thwupping" sound of the "gnaB giB".

*February, 2015
I am the dark,
I am the sea,
I sit in silence,
Through the cinematic breeze.

Visions of the aesthetic,
The mentalism of fear,
A lovely lullaby,
The nyctophobia gear.

I am an art piece,
Painted in black, grey and white,
Kept in the archive of the dismissive,
On spacious 104-8C.
© 2015 Izzah Batrisyia
Love is when you reach for her hand instead of the bottle
I'm having beer for breakfast
& you're nowhere around
freed a completed checklist
of my spine spiraling down
I'm queen
I'll eat you legless
your knuckles form my crown
through your deep breathing down
your knees become my necklace
and I'm pushing through your sounds  
it's the bed that's shaking now
but you feel it in the ground
your sweat has met the sheets
and through your bones
I feel you now
between our breaths
we're chest to chest
I fumble through your brown
with every strand tied in my hand
and both your lips against my mouth
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