My Lips Quake
as my mind races past
like the countryside on a train
Amorous stories painting a galaxy to explore
In that field over there
where the flowers belie a golden path
that will never be, again
and again
and again
Every passing second...
my heart rests heavy between each beat
it sighs in its eggshell seat
nestled between the
branches of this brambling tree
it yearns to break free of its gilded cage
yet every birdsong sung broken
by these bars of thought...
The pen rights itself.
The beautiful curves ****** any agency
from these brown lover's eyes
I am left- Myself
the only observer
to this raging river of tears.
I can but bask in its salty-white torrents,
Let the waves consume me until
I have lost Myself
in its primal wonder
It is this Death of Grasping
which I wrest,
it offers me
no breath
to rest
in
I am the studious disciple
who banes sleep
preferring to whisper
his day to memory,
While the moon paints circles
across my face
My Lips Quake
as my mind races past
with all the lessons
on this Every-day
My Lips Quake
with every remember'd beauty:
The light was new
in a day gone blooming
that will never be again
and again
and again
Every passing second
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 10:59 PM UTC
My Lips Quake
as my mind races past
like the countryside on a train
Amorous stories painting a galaxy to explore
In that field over there
where the flowers belie a golden path
that will never be, again
and again
and again
Every passing second...
my heart rests heavy between each beat
it sighs in its eggshell seat
nestled between the
branches of this brambling tree
it yearns to break free of its gilded cage
yet every birdsong sung broken
by these bars of thought...
The pen rights itself.
The beautiful curves ****** any agency
from these brown lover's eyes
I am left- Myself
the only observer
to this raging river of tears.
I can but bask in its salty-white torrents,
Let the waves consume me until
I have lost Myself
in its primal wonder
It is this Death of Grasping
which I wrest,
it offers me
no breath
to rest
in
I am the studious disciple
who banes sleep
preferring to whisper
his day to memory,
While the moon paints circles
across my face
My Lips Quake
as my mind races past
with all the lessons
on this Every-day
My Lips Quake
with every remember'd beauty:
The light was new
in a day gone blooming
that will never be again
and again
and again
Every passing second
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