The thunder clouds are rolling in
And all I want is your skin
On my skin
The taste of your sheets
In my mouth
As I bite down
Hard
They smell like you
Like us
Our lust
And the rain on the roof
The whisper on your lips
A kiss
A moan
An unsuppressed groan
When you touch me
With fire
Fingers crooked and long
Our bodies together
Dance to a song
The music we make
My whole body aches
For you
For us
Our lust
In these sheets
I taste
A future
Where this
Rainy day bliss
Of your skin
On my skin
Long after the sunshine
Has filtered back in

HEART BEATING
                              TO A
                                      RESTLESS
                 ­                                       RHYTHM
THERE'S NOTHING
                                   LEFT FOR
                                                    ME HERE
                                                            ­  ANYMORE


IN THE FACE
                       OF MY
                                   PRESENCE,
                                                       I AM



                                                   absent.

Smoking cigarettes and *** right outside of the school
And the kids out at play think that I look so cool
They all want to join, so I selflessly share
Maybe I'm ****** up or perhaps I don't care
But our clouds of smoke fade away in the air

I sit by the church and throw bricks at their signs
I wreck through their doors and inflict my design
Spray paint the truth, covering all the walls
Leaving my mark in every one of its halls
As the echoes ring out from my honest calls

Even at my age,
I see mountainous lands in the sky,
Languishing among towering clouds,
A lofty empire, lost kingdoms,
Perhaps a strange magical realm,
Thriving with dwarves and giants,
Maidens in towers awaiting rescue,
Where lone horse warriors wander,
Maybe observing us, far below.

Must be a poetic creative thing,
Or simply the child deep within,
Viewing through the eyes of the man,
Dreaming ancient days of long ago,
When the child yearned to be grown,
To know all there is to know,
Never appreciating escapism,
The chance to drift within time,
Ponder upon distant, aerial, worlds.

Or maybe I’m just a dreamer,
That and nothing more, hmm,
Telling myself, I am a poet,
A procrastinating creative spirit,
In love with the trappings of art,
The child asleep within wisdom,
Languishing among towering clouds,
I see mountainous lands in the sky,
Even at my age.

©Paul M Chafer 2015

I write symphonies.
Not with a pen but a brush.
My words aren't spoken.
They are thrown.
They are splattered.
I feel each stroke as a note.
A cellist writing his greatest concerto.
A masterpiece.
And I'm writing for you.

the heavy heart is a heathen
corrupter of better nature
committer of soul-treason

fueled by the miserable notion
that death is twilight
and life is dawn

to flight, to flail
to rage, to rail
to weep, to wail
to no avail

to unhope

and all of this minus the mercy