Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
it was in the darkness that i found her
there by the dry fountain
its basin gathered the paper thin years
like withered leaves
like soul searching written with her lips
like a castle keep penned with the inks of my regrets

the dry fountain flowed once upon a time with a rich river of
all manner of worldly beasts
the fabled ones and the forgotten ones
and their tales like tapestry's woven with heart strings

now the dry fountain was her home
she bid me take my leasuire for a moment from my fleeing
so my bone thin horse could rest his weary heart
i offered her coins in gratitude for her shelter
with a gentle hand she turned such aside
and instead took my hand
and withdrew the pen embedded in my skin

and said to me that
'each dawn requires a darkness with which to begin'
she began with fragments of me
i tried in vain to be the candle that holds back the shadows
but in truth she is venus finding gentle sweet sainthood in her repertoire
like a frail swan of the ethereal grace

she wanted only to see the glory days to return to this place
to see the fountain flow once again
see its thriving life and its deep magics of the heart
we spent that winter camped there gathering each paper thin tomb
and placing them at the alter of the written word
but to no avail
the days had fallen to cold stone
and not even the brilliant light she shed soulshine and heart
could revive the dry fountain

the last i saw her she had glanced back from her road leading away
with a kind woman's smile she gives to friends
she once said i was too reckless with my heart
now i knew what she meant
(for Sandra Beasley..the poet)
I can fake my identity and try to look happy,
but its all just a cover.
Take a swig from the flask and remove the last mask
only to find another.

There was once a time when I knew myself,
but now I'm not so sure.
All semblance of self-worth lay eroding in the dirt,
and its all thanks to her.

It's not really her fault, I'm truly to blame.
I grew selfish out of fear.
Afraid of being alone, I couldn't let her go
and now she's nowhere near.
A quick freestyle that I did.
Poet, be not afraid.
There are far worse things than
Bad poetry.

Keep writing; like a child keeps
Drawing with the purest of
Disregards to likeness.

The more stones you turn, the more
Gems you produce.

The more ink you rain,
The more gracious your written
Children grow.

All flexing builds muscle.

Rough bricks form castles.

Even Dalì carved canvases to shreds
And started anew
Not caring too much.
Not caring

Too much
To keep painting.
Your kiss is my garden,
where tulips are always blooming
:)
However much
it may pain me to confess:
I appreciate you
much much much much more
than I like you;
even so,
you oughtta be grateful
for even so much
consideration.

If our Paths ne'er crossed again,
it would be an eternity too soon.
What an inexhaustible muse
thou hath proven to be;
so much more
than I e'er could have asked.

Ne'ertheless:
*******
and the various horses
upon which thou hath arrived!
Bloodshot eyes, and a lopsided smile...
Apparition of the unholy night;
You grinned at me;
like we're partners in crime.
You  traversed the innards of my mind,
through  catacombs, where deathly secrets lie;
Like you know,
we could be sinners ; and raise hell together,
Or esoteric saints,  levitating to nirvanic realms together,
Like you know..
we conspired to be strangers in this life,
In another world,;
we could spawn sweet mayhem together.
(05/11/2013)
Why can't you be horrible and full of unforgivable flaws?
Why does it gets worse and not better inside my stupid, devoted heart?
Why do you still feel the same to me?
Your skin hasn't lost that scent I knew
The scent I still know and can remember by simply closing my eyes
The scent I still desire and find familiar
Even if it really never was
Next page