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Canis Latrans Feb 2019
You took the beasts among us,
and made them gods.
Hungry,
ravenous gods.
Payton Hayes Jul 2018
I thought after
all these years of
being bitten and scratching sores,  
I'd eventually grow a thick enough skin
to keep out the mosquitos.
I was wrong.
Even so, mosquitos are nothing compared
to the itch I've got for you.
You see, mosquito bites are only skin deep,
but I've got this ravenous hunger for you,
gnawing at my bones.
Payton Hayes Jul 2018
Everyone will eventually
fall
victim to some
addiction, and
I want to be the
ravenous hunger
in you
bones.
Wes Noneya Feb 2017
So little so much
Brief brush of fingers
That soft touch
Heat that lingers

“Mine” she could swear she heard
Her heart for a moment stands still
With that whispered word
A devilishly divine thrill

Hint of Everything
In a gentle brush
Makes her soul sing
Blood starts to rush

Thoughts, want, and need, a ravenous desire
Taking Form
Capricious Fire
Fanciful Storm

Growing tempest of lust
A she devil of need
Feed soon she must
Dances in her eyes, take heed

Growing lustful state
Hunger and thirst, in wicked measure
She wants to sate
With pain and pleasure

~Wes Noneya
~Christi Michaels~May 2015~

I sense the wind
across my skin
goose bumps rise
         to your touch
         calloused hands
         fingers know just
         how firm to grasp

the light rain
Knowin' of a
storm a'blowin
           Your lips settle
           on mine
           wet~slick
           firm and yielding till soft

We are nestled in these
suspended moments
between precipitation and
an all out squall
          Your fullness climbs into me
          finding my breath
          I inhale the quiet before...
          exhale, inhaling the Fresh of You

as this storm unfolds
pounding down seedlings of spring
rinsing all things clean
         I am awash with you
         unbridled passion having
         survived a prolonged
         season of thirst and drought

☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆
Copyright © 2015 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved.
seedlings of spring.
Vijaya Balan Nov 2014
He woke up from a dream today,
To gaze sight at the break of dawn,
A part of his life gone for the day,
As the morning dew drops on the lawn

Precious memories mingled with emotions,
As the night before played in his mind,
A beauty that needs full devotion,
The red tulip blooms for his kind

Tears fill his dazed eyes,
A thought lingers for that touch,
This heart twisted with cries,
His mortal love for a soul he has not seen much

The dark clouds sweep in gracefully,
Announcing the fall of the mighty rain,
This soul sits in the corner of despair,
Afraid of that grey world of calamity

The windowpane becomes blurry,
And so do his visions of her fade away,
In the cold midnight chill,
Leaving the darkness to prevail

He kneels down by his bed,
Gazing up at the darkened skies,
The moon shining bright,
And the stars twinkling brighter

He prays to the nightfall,
As his ravenous beauty dances with the stars,
Her shadow among the clouds,
An apparition hidden among the darkness,

This dark forlorn love,
As the sands of time change,
He remains there still,
An embodiment of his sacred feeling,
Worshiping her, day and night.

Vijaya Balan (2008)
Inspired by the song 'Pray Nightfall' by Paradise Lost. The title inspired my piece while everything else is a speck of my imagination.
firexscape Jul 2014
I hated cigarettes
With a childhood filled with suffocating smoke
My anticipation for them was unlikely
But every **** smoke you had sitting next to me
You fed me your words and stories
A breathtaking cascade of scattered phrases and ideas and dreams
I was all so ravenous to hear
Your smoke swirled, not suffocated
I'd watch it snake throughout the air
As it pushed your memories of people and places to come to life in my mind
Every wisp of smoke pulled me closer to you
Smokes killed
But darling your words gave me more life than anything
joyce knee Jun 2014
I'm ravenous.
Famished.
Starving for your touch
        your sugar-sweet kisses
        your velvet-smooth embraces
Empty of affection
Feed me your love

*Fill me up
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
Black Rook In Rainy Weather

On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident

To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.

Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent

Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent

By bestowing largesse, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical,
Yet politic; ignorant

Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant

A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content

Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.

The Response*

Even while flashbulbs go out, every now and then, we all must gather our arms and legs in a heap of human kindling, to rap tap tap on the downstairs neighbors door- for a set of candles, perhaps a chance to go completely insane for one terse moment when the hyperbole of vowels *just don't matter
anymore.

And speaking of the sordid state of griseous gull-like creatures. Ravenous ravens gnawing outside the window of the kitchen table. How boring life can become, for at the moment, when we are not biting our nails, playing dress up, or playing doctor- all *******. Or maybe even burying our heads in the looks of rooks or with our noses brimming over with the tops of books.

The tea we have set in the study awaits us, as we all have to drink our tea some time.

Just don't leave the lights on baby. Who needs lamps at full lux at high noon any who? You, Mrs. Sylvia Plath Hughes? Maybe you ought to buy a book of stamps- at the nearest Hobby Lobby, pack a paper bag with an apple and a 'sammich', and list formally your complaints.

We can't all waste our time narrating other people's lives in the third person.

— The End —