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Each day she posed naked
As he continued to paint
Engrossed in the picture
She was twenty to his fifty
But his age never upset her
In truth, she was falling for him

He never attempted to ****** her
As if he ignored her body
Maybe she was not beautiful enough
She knew he lived all alone
He never shared his home
If he asked, she would be his

She tried to show temptation
Wanting him to notice her
No matter how much she showed
The curves of her body
He would just keep painting
As if he never noticed her there

On the last day she could take no more
"Am I not beautiful in your eyes
Can you tell I desire you
I would do anything you ask
If it be only for one night
I am yours if you want me"

"You are young and beautiful
Your beauty will be seen forever
In this painting, In your honour
But I loved so very long ago
I lost her to Mistress Death
My heart belongs to her, always"
Copyright © Chris Smith 2013
Fluid
the mouth of silence
while the drowning poet
writes to starve the
mind of words
© Tamara Natividad
pisceanesque.com
Written 22 November, 2015
-
Come and wade with me in Lake Midnight,
Where fireflies join the stars,
Twinkling and glowing yellow warm light,
A swirl of reverie from afar.

Come be one with the water, still and sweet.
We are special guests here
To a concert of crickets, love songs they sing,
Which only you and I can hear.

Come dance with me among moon beams
Illuminating Lake Midnight.
Nature knows us very well, it seems,
Binding our hearts ever so tight.

Come and swim beneath the wild willows,
Watching our bodies become tangled
As we play with the midnight minnows,
Our laughter at a wrangle.

Come to Lake Midnight, where love is reborn,
Amends all that is torn, and makes new what is worn.
almond eyes
seeing more
than i see inside
wild as a wolf
and wide as her mind
blue as the sky
before the stars
come alive
while the artist
takes its time
painting a moon
on dark cotton
and i swear
this world is better
when her eyes are open
the thunder of
a small bird.

a poem grows shadows
and moonscapes,

the moon,
withered sapphires,
undone,
her open windows
a thread of bright
light.
Strip enough lights from our lives
and you'll find that we're all blind.

Feeling along walls,
and stubbing our toes
in the long darkness.

Be my light, my Polaris,
be my full moon in the night,
and save me from myself.

Save me from this begotten hell
that we've so carefully crafted
within our own hearts and minds.
 Nov 2015 MsAmendable
Mike Essig
An old man's head:
a bucket full of lies.
A vortex swirls there like
confetti at the ticker tape
parade of a traitor.
Fragments adhere and disperse
becoming ephemeral poems
that mean nothing for a moment.
Whoever and whomever become
a jaded lump of whatever.
That empty head contains
multitudes of nothing that
never quite achieve something.
Poems made of offal.
Thoughts never finished.
Whenever he is, he has been,
he will be. Vortex like
water in a flushed toilet,
disappearing into ****.
Unspoken words sounding loud
in a cistern of silence
where nobody pretends to listen.

  ~mce
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