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Bohemian Mar 1
What of the stories,what of you,what of the words or what of my dew
Lies and lies 
Strangled the fliers 
Witnessed it, he has admirers 
Sweetness and tartness ignored 
Mulberry swallowed but in the heart it sored
What would the 'dead lips' pen
When it had not the truth,son
Curses though slip off
Feelings be never any drawf 
For to hate 
Once there should have been love's bait tight
How dangling and dwindling 
No shore was he ever kindling 
Hours and hours 
It takes no par 
Touch not that knight 
He has swords defending with might 
How barren is he and
Knows not any scabbard
Those wands of enigma 
That suits not the noble hands off stigma
Suitors of temper 
Shooters of blood towels much damper 
Is it your blood ? 
Shut-up for god's sake 
Let's arrange him a slumber
Once lost in dreams,
Insomniac I became.

When red petals glittered,
Scattered color all around,
With eyes veiled under the dark night,
Colorless I became.

Then words sizzled,
Created storm,
Tore heart all around,
With uncried tears,
Voice choked,
Damp inside I became.

Ghastly winds stripped me *****,
Reality I became.
Annie Oct 2018
I want to be this
wet white dress
hanging alone on the line,
on such a gentle
Sunday morning.

Why do I want to be this dress
so badly?
Every time I glance it’s way
I’m surprised with the jealousy I feel.
I must be jealous of its peace,
I suppose.

It has no need to do anything
all day long,
except hang there
and sweetly dry
in its own time.
Gary Brocks Aug 2018
I hear the carve of oars,
I see your palms enfold the wood,
as shards of stars shred
a back and glistening wave.

I hear the carve of oars,
the shore is breached,
we reach dank granite stairs, climb
a tower in moon gritty light.

I hear the carve of oars,
you speak, your turgid cheek
blue-steel-gray, your gaze grates,
my salt raged eyes summon waves and stars.

I hear the carve of oars,
waves rattle a candle's flame,
chill the bed frame, the wet stony room ––
the door closes, it scrapes.

I hear the carve of oars,
I know your lurching gate,
the clank as both oar lock’s turn,
you slip the shore,
I hear the carve of oars

Copyright © 2002 Gary Brocks
180928F

They didn't get along
Remembrance into our respective pasts,
Gloss over our eyes whilst our perspective drifts apart.

I hold my hand o'er the candle to remember the flame.
I toss myself from the roof to feel the flight again.

The rainsoaked flame wanders through my bones,
My home,
My dampened heart keeps burning.

~Robert van Lingen
The moody greys;
The rain that stings;
A thousand random,
Happy things,
That makes me want
To leap and play;
To take in the splendor
Of this cold, wet day,
And revel in it's quiet gloom-
To watch it weave
On it's dampened loom-
For daylight does not at all compare
With this misty, freshened,
Dripping air.
Though all and sundry
Are brought down low
By the gift the heavens
So kindly bestow,
I feel instead Nature's kiss
In this, the weather
I always miss.
So while others may think to complain,
And shake their fists at the falling rain,
The soothing wind doth caress my cheek;
And so, inspired,
I thought to speak-
Of the drought of sun,
And it's absent rays;
And this,
The perfect, rainy day.
But an exaltation,
a prayer to none:
I do not wish this day be done;
Rather I would plead,
Sincere,
To leave this solemn weather here.
Tehreem Sep 2016
Night gathered it's weapons
To hunt the purest heart
Haunted by the demons
Of love, hopes and dreams
In the forest of despair
It burned very slowly
Like the damp wood
Annihilation persists
From within the core
Red from the love
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