I move away.
Every motion I make is
That of someone leaving.
I move away,
Like finished dancers; ploughs
Of birds heading to or from
Some paradise or not. I
Move away from excessive
Touching; such caresses turn
Desperate and demanding to
A man whose lovers are gentle
Mountain breezes and whispered
Songs of dry leaves hissing
Like the last breath of
A ancient artist seeing her
Masterpiece through closing
Eyes; content and, like all things
Living should,
Embracing the dying a slow
Death that Life truly is, and
Knowing it's no place to stay.
Not staying.
Moving
Away.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC
I move away.
Every motion I make is
That of someone leaving.
I move away,
Like finished dancers; ploughs
Of birds heading to or from
Some paradise or not. I
Move away from excessive
Touching; such caresses turn
Desperate and demanding to
A man whose lovers are gentle
Mountain breezes and whispered
Songs of dry leaves hissing
Like the last breath of
A ancient artist seeing her
Masterpiece through closing
Eyes; content and, like all things
Living should,
Embracing the dying a slow
Death that Life truly is, and
Knowing it's no place to stay.
Not staying.
Moving
Away.
