Entrancing as the view is
It's like watching silent movies
Where overly painted faces
Gesticulate with solemn graces
Open to interpretation
Until the words appear
Surrounded by fanciful borders
Innocuously proclaiming
The weather is fine today, m'dear
And you laugh anyway
Because what they just said
Is not how it sounded in your head
Especially because how they are dressed
Lord forgive my misconstruing
a torrid expression so ambiguous
It eclipsed my ubiquitousness
I'm just trying to understand
From the arms that are flying
and the cheeks that are burning
Without the words inferring
If it will be a fine day today
or
If the world has finally stopped turning

I need the words to come first
Before the screen scene
Or else I'll laugh, when I should cry
To be misunderstood feels obscene

I actually like
Black and White
Tangerine dreams
are so Yesterday

White pages, Black dreams
silent words scream

Describe the word Blue
without it coming to play...

It's something born,
denied its first breath
It's skin from cold water
It's the first blush of Death.
It's the cloudless sky
that mocks the tears
in my heart.
It's the only colour
in my Rainbow
when the tears depart.
It's the colour of ice
that floats in my drink
which resides at my elbow
drowning my ability to think.
It's the colour of flame
that blazed beyond heat.
It's the reason I'm blind.
It's the colour of my feet
that walked through the snow
following your glow
to lose the path
with no retreat.
It's the colour of my mind

I repeat

I like Black and White
the colours of Nothing
Ink blots on paper,
a pinch of Blue,
and the murky Grey
becomes something
I once knew.

is that even a word?
literaturely?
who cares really?
It is now, to me

I have oft complained
the seductive heat
of tar and ink
that has literaturely
clogged my veins
and in turn
gummed my brain
often touting screams
that proclaim
NOT SANE
is here to remain
but I was wrong?

When last I cut my wrists
the pain ran Red
and inside my head
I literaturely turned Blue
Who knew?
that all things unsaid
are put to bed
on a razors edge
cutting my soul in half
that never once
turned on you

I literaturely turned gray

I paled beneath dying embers
of forgotten burning fires
dulling as ash coated remnants
of long ago desires

I now step back
from the fray
I've had my weak
my day
and upon the hour
where the clock strikes
the 780th minute
13 leaves a sour
taste in my mouth

turning all good things South
swimming in blackness
in my new ruby red
bathing suit
that literaturely
turned white
I literaturely died
tonight

Now a mute
blood red in vane
I sit and stare
at the bones
of my soul
that remain
A ghastly caricature
of a misspent life
that can't negotiate
the road at the bend

I literaturely can
no longer
comprehend

all the little children play
in the streets
their grubby little faces
smile with cherubic grace
all the while
little worker ants
dance double time
along invisible threads
and get confused
when a finger spreads
North to East
when they should be
travelling South
How come, little baby
you need something
in your mouth?
Guessing rhymes
is a favourite pastime
to a literary Genius
two stepping
to a pop beat
that should be waltzed
but the grubby children
only see the rain
running fast
down the gutter
Their tiny ships
made from discarded
plastic
are ocean liners
and their inarticulate
shouts
whisper into the ether
dying a harsh death
upon the frost
Scattered bits of flotsam
are piled up high
upon the curb of
no longer relevant
Wastage to the scavengers
but not asked
of the grubby faces
if they grew out of it

It’s nineteen years old now
but as clear as the day it was captured
thanks to the wonder of modern day technology
it is frozen, as a memory on my computer screen
and it reminds me, in a blaze, of our total devotion
as it displays, to this day, our rapture

Your sitting there, a handsome devil
a beguiling smile upon your face
looking up at me like I was the one
that marked your world and you didn’t
ever want to be anywhere other than in that one place

I’m smiling down at you, in my eyes you can
see just the one single thing that was true
There was nowhere else I wanted to be, that day
but to be smiling down at you

Between us both, with each of our arms wrapped around
a small child that was happy to be, just part of us
As we gaze into each others eyes
he was happy to sit and smile, looking away
but knowing he was surrounded by trust

It is our wedding photograph that I stare at
on my computer screen and I’m still in awe
so much I can not look away
I look at us there, from a lifetime ago
and I thank the forces that be that we
still look at each other that way today

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/first-date-17/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/first-date-ii/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/first-date-iii/
(best read in order)

He blankets her with a mist that is fine and as pure as his postpartum soul is able to manifest. He’s sorry that she is sobbing on the dirt floor. He can’t think past the hunger that is beating upon her, which beats upon him. He is angry that his ancient predatory instincts are gaping to the fore.

   For the ancient being now gently weeping on a cold dirt floor.

Why did he not recognize her? How did he get so lax in the thinking that cattle could disguise it self?  A Wolf in Sheep’s clothing? Well... it’s not like he has not donned the same costume!

   He had been a Protector for so long. Rising each Sunset with the challenges that bring on the most predatory beasts that hunger for pain. He, alone, has stood beside Humanity to bring the world a semblance of normality, morality, a passing moment when they thought they were King of the world… but their inflated egos were never touched by doubt.
Because of him.

But she brings him down to the basest level.

   He feels…
    For her
     For her hunger
      For her emptiness
       For her utter contemptuousness


   She is the creature that he has been birthed to fight. The utter savageness that she brings forth when it becomes night.

He alone, in eternity, wanders the earth to make Mortal life the one thing that is right.

   She lifts her head from the cold dirt floor to stare at him. He materializes as a persona that should scare her, one that heralds Death, but his emotions are fraught with peril. She is important to him. He may have been birthed to bring Death but he was never denied that one could become his Life.

His pulse quickens, her eyes widen, her pulse quickens, he is afraid of the sight that lays bare in front of him. His fangs are buried deep in his bottom lip, he can not say a word even if his immortal soul depends on it.

   She licks her lips in hesitation, maybe anticipation; she could be licking her lips because of the small droplet of blood that lingers in the corner of her mouth. He wants to touch his tongue to said lips and cheek and ear and throat and, well HELL, he’s happy to continue south… as long as his tongue is touching skin…

   She looks away, briefly, and cries again. She is unable to fight past her hunger even though she has recognized the Protector.

She needs protecting too!

She’s so hungry!

But from the swelling of his body, *so is he…