Wrap me up and save
me. I'm drowning in God's
seas again. The waves
are hard to escape. I can't
breathe as the water is filling
up my lungs again. People
gathered to watch my
miserable life end. No
one offered me a hand.
You were the only man
willing to dive and take
the swim. You dragged
me above the waves. Held
my head up and cried in
pain "Please don't do this
again". "Breath in breathe
and out". "Breathe in the
words trembling from my
mouth" "Breathe in these
words of I love you and i'll
always do till the very end"
he said as he dragged me
to the sea shore. Where he
laid my body down. Kissed
my lips and neck. Where
he picked the seaweed
off my golden coloured
dress* ~

I went through my days' routine
so automatically
for so many weeks
that I didn't notice the peculiarity
of snow in May.
-*what do you feel when you feel nothing?

You called me all the names of things I feared
I'd one day become.
As we sat across, my favorite beer, my favorite bar,
this time I didn't run
I sat and I faced you,
but we didn't get far
before I realized I
was simply searching for happiness
in the same place I lost it
- *we originated from broken homes and only fell in love to escape alone

Fidelity is strangely hard to come by amongst bandits and naysayers, does a dream seem a thousand years? And shall that thousand years last?  
Or abruptly halt to thy end!!!!
A muse is word of choice,
Backtalkers who have no voice show strength!!!
Boomerang spitters continue to be getters of pleasure of sin,
Art thou out? Or do you fit in?....

Old as I am,
I often ache for you.
   ~mce

There are too many
stars out tonight.
I know you are among them.
Blink at me so I can
kiss you goodnight.

  ~mce

Let that lovely gown
slid to your perfect ankles.
Kick it off those cowboy boots.
Step into my arms.
We will meld into
a journey only we can take.
I don't know where will we go.
But if living flesh can kiss
and become one,
it will be a holy trip
to a divinely private world.

   ~mce

On the desk, there lies a fountain pen
It doesn't take cartridges
Rather, you dip it in ink and press it to paper
It makes a sound, not unlike fingernails on a chalkboard
But not like it either - it's satisfying instead of goosebump-inducing
Slowly scratching the page until it's gone
The ink has bled onto page 3
I've pressed too hard
But this paper is thick
Previous poets pondered profusely
Pretending this pen was a pipe
Holding it between their teeth until an idea came ripe
This pen holds a history of poetry
Of spilling thoughts that otherwise stayed internalized
And of sometimes spilling ink
It gets everywhere
I love it

In your mother's apple-orchard,
Just a year ago, last spring:
Do you remember, Yvonne!
The dear trees lavishing
Rain of their starry blossoms
To make you a coronet?
Do you ever remember, Yvonne,
As I remember yet?

In your mother's apple-orchard,
When the world was left behind:
You were shy, so shy, Yvonne!
But your eyes were calm and kind.
We spoke of the apple harvest,
When the cider press is set,
And such-like trifles, Yvonne,
That doubtless you forget.

In the still, soft Breton twilight,
We were silent; words were few,
Till your mother came out chiding,
For the grass was bright with dew:
But I know your heart was beating,
Like a fluttered, frightened dove.
Do you ever remember, Yvonne,
That first faint flush of love?

In the fulness of midsummer,
When the apple-bloom was shed,
Oh, brave was your surrender,
Though shy the words you said.
I was glad, so glad, Yvonne!
To have led you home at last;
Do you ever remember, Yvonne,
How swiftly the days passed?

In your mother's apple-orchard
It is grown too dark to stray,
There is none to chide you, Yvonne!
You are over far away.
There is dew on your grave grass, Yvonne!
But your feet it shall not wet:
No, you never remember, Yvonne!
And I shall soon forget.