When the whispering demons of the morning come calling
When silly , robotic thespians deliver their scripted theatrics with slow motion , foggy angles of the world as rivers of window condensation and sorrow are falling                                                          ­                                                                 ­    Be watchful for songbirds are connected with the mill pond , see the dove at peace with bobwhite songs
Be assured that the wind , the rain and the hardwoods
share pain while celebrating the whim of a cold , methodical yet temporary Earth

Hello poetry,
Have you come to whisk me away into another fantasy
Float me down the river of another memory
Guide me into an abyss, searching for my sanity
Remove me from this place, drifting from gravity

I shut my eyes, let out my hand and let poetry do away with me.

In my dreams, I can feel you peel off my clinging clothes
And the heat from your fingers scorches down to my bones.
With muddy eyes, I see only darkness and blurry silhouettes
Yet it’s so easy for our wandering lips to connect,
You spit down into my spirit and it turns to mist.
Our bodies dance inside of bliss, carefully we move and twist
For our passion can be slippery when wet;
And neither of us intends to fall, deeper, into this pit.

-SLuR

She seems strong - so she speaks,
She seems alive with life complete.
She shrugs a shoulder, couldn't care,
Love is war, a life's  dare,
She has loved and seen it go,
Love wilt in the midst of snow...
But say goodbye, gently, if you will,
Her heart is warm, fragile still.

She has laughed and she has smiled,
Dreamed enchantment on an isle.
She has risen,  heights soared,
She has seen closed doors.
She has fallen, again, to stand,
Dreamed a dream in never land...
But tread softly, on her, if you will,
Her dreams are young, fragile still.

She has seen loss and pain,
Prayers lost,  hopes slain.
Her heart in hands, she has wept,
Tired and weary, troubled, slept.
Transience is eternal, well she knows,
But her heart stronger never grows...
Break her  gently, if you will.
Her heart is tender and fragile still.

chain smoking on the balcony with a Buddhist monk
not sure how i got here or where he is from
he talks about honesty and compassion and faith
and the girl that he married, that incredible earthquake
he looks at me and asks where i want to go
i tell him to tomorrow, and after that who knows
with a sigh and a smile he ashes and says
you keep living for tomorrow and eventually you're dead

She was a shy, detached woman
shortchanged at birth

In all her life
she never opened her arms to anyone
never returned affection
her heart an icy chamber
stoic, closed

Half the time she was penned up in isolation
trapped in an asylum
a life cruelly altered by thorazine
and shock treatments
her soundtrack a choir of madwomen
their voices running riot
in her only home -
a snake pit

She was trapped in a Bronte novel
her mournful eyes fixed
on some distant invisible point

She remained disconnected
unknowable
a doomed woman
a doomed time

.
Do you feel the right connection?
Pulling at the space between us.
Evaporating our barricades
and redefining those hazy borders.
My hand on your *** brings shivers,
your hand on mine evokes promises,
a kiss as the connection is made
and time stands still in awe.
Two connect with a static charge,
exploding in a chaos of lightning,
sensitive tongues of mute pleasure
dance lightly across tenderised skins.
Synapses skip with happy wonder,
as sparks fly with interactive touch,
teasing memories of the future.
We disrobe. Waiting. Coiled springs.
Ready to ****.


© Pagan Paul (12/01/17)