Let me lay down in the bed of poetry
you keep underneath
the soft curves of your skin
and let me sleep in
until it is time to dream again
let your smile be the sun
and the moon and the sky
forever painted black and blue
and bruised with the brush strokes
of love lost and found
and fought for and kept
weave the magic in your pulse
into the madness of my heartbeat
and spill your words of blood and anguish
and sorrow and triumph
into the silence of the conversation
between the color and wonder
of your eyes gazing hypnotically
into the horror and the void
and monsters living
in the dark pools of mine
build bridges between
the broken pieces of me
and the stars you keep
under your skirt
and we will live in our own universe
where everything hurt
has a place to find comfort
and every comfort knows
the way back
from the place where we hurt
where dreams know that nightmares
are part of the stage and the play
and that life even in death
must always go on
and should we forget our lines
we just need to listen
to the song of the leaves
and the words in the wind
we will be the forest
and the bears and the wolfs
and the dragons and the clouds
and the fire and the howls
and the fairy and the tale
and the language we make up
as we write poetry underneath
the beds of our skin
Nov 26, 2017
Nov 26, 2017 at 2:58 AM UTC
Let me lay down in the bed of poetry
you keep underneath
the soft curves of your skin
and let me sleep in
until it is time to dream again
let your smile be the sun
and the moon and the sky
forever painted black and blue
and bruised with the brush strokes
of love lost and found
and fought for and kept
weave the magic in your pulse
into the madness of my heartbeat
and spill your words of blood and anguish
and sorrow and triumph
into the silence of the conversation
between the color and wonder
of your eyes gazing hypnotically
into the horror and the void
and monsters living
in the dark pools of mine
build bridges between
the broken pieces of me
and the stars you keep
under your skirt
and we will live in our own universe
where everything hurt
has a place to find comfort
and every comfort knows
the way back
from the place where we hurt
where dreams know that nightmares
are part of the stage and the play
and that life even in death
must always go on
and should we forget our lines
we just need to listen
to the song of the leaves
and the words in the wind
we will be the forest
and the bears and the wolfs
and the dragons and the clouds
and the fire and the howls
and the fairy and the tale
and the language we make up
as we write poetry underneath
the beds of our skin
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