Into the wilderness—
With no trace of humanity.
Lies a world so peaceful,
Totally unaware of reality.

Why does the heart feel empty?
There's so much love to give,
But none to take.

It's empty yet so heavy.
How can it be so lifeless,
And still ache?

The day was long and greedily waited,
in near unspoken secret - like a thing
delightfully and enchantingly wicked.

We are reunited - simpatico - my love, lover and I.
We ravish each other and lavish each other
with flattery, endearments and entire pleasure.

We live sweet centuries in those tight hours.

Happiness changes the tenor of things.
Rains of feeling combine in torrents,
like the tinkling notes of a harp make symphony.

Our minutest nerves are instruments of joy.

Mornings start with exquisite excitement and
the dense reel and stagger of intoxication -
because we’re drunk with the fullness of life.

Leaves on trees called chestnut, linden and hazel, stir
gently in the breeze - those faint shoos and rustles, times
nature’s fractal design - blare, in effect, like terrific trumpets.

At night, as we walk together under cooling summer skies,
the stars in the far-flung firmaments, seem to huddle together
and whisper, like sisters, of life and the mysteries of earthy love.

We are the dust of those constellations - are we but spies?
.
.
Songs for this:
Thank You My Angel by Over the Rhine
Perfect Day by Povo
Goodbye Sunday by Everything But the Girl

These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis.
They grew their toes and fingers well enough,
Their little foreheads bulged with concentration.
If they missed out on walking about like people
It wasn't for any lack of mother-love.

O I cannot explain what happened to them!
They are proper in shape and number and every part.
They sit so nicely in the pickling fluid!
They smile and smile and smile at me.
And still the lungs won't fill and the heart won't start.

They are not pigs, they are not even fish,
Though they have a piggy and a fishy air --
It would be better if they were alive, and that's what they were.
But they are dead, and their mother near dead with distraction,
And they stupidly stare and do not speak of her.

There is no knife that cuts my skin

Just too many bright reflections

Good words are screaming from within

And blood might help confessions

I’ve read so many similar words on here

In some weird way that fills me with fear

I can understand it’s romantic, I guess

But for once in my life I wish to hear less

Little red drops, they won’t help the pain

Big chunky bracelets on your wrist

It makes you feel like you’re insane

Yet still you remain, and still you insist

all nothing each yearly stretch
like old tree               eaten
from          

                       inside

                                                out
hard to see         getting better
hard to see this getting better