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Isn't it weird how fast I've fallen?
I already miss your spirit, sunshine.
To be frank, wherever I'm going
I feel the urge to be back all the time

I miss museums and ancient buildings,
The river, the grass and the trees.
I miss the way I was usually feeling
While I was walking down your streets.

I don't honestly know how it happened,
How quickly you captured my heart,
But I could've never imagined
That I'd miss Roma so hard
Chris Saitta May 15
When she folds into me and weeps,
The world of empty things falls into me
Like the wetness of July in antiquated Rome,
Mother of tears, Mater Lachrymarum, in Forum stone,
The rain-addled veneers of Octavia’s portico.

Gather up these black sickened bellies of ruins,
Turn them out to make hunger the den of the skies,
Let the cracked whisper of each monument and temple
Breathe as Caesar, in unending stillness like a bare road.

A road is the sadness of seeing our beginning
But knowing love its far-off end is foretold.
Let scarlet feathers go
as love does exiled too
One hundred leagues
One hundred Roman feet
One hundred prosody

For Augustus' dreams
condemns me treacherously
and I cannot breathe
Each gasp for life is death
Each death a new stanza

Let scarlet feathers go
as love does in exile, too
across white cloudy fields
beneath the asphalt sea
Let scarlet feathers go free
Ovid's Cure is certainly poetry
Phoenix Black Dec 2020
A haze of amber flecked with gold
the nightly spell of Rome takes hold
its citrine light gleams from our hair
and footsteps float as if on air

the ancient wiles of ancient lanes
dilate our eyes, infect our brains
the domes and columns coalesce
to wink us, nudge us, urge us, 'yes'

with impish looks, our hands entwine
our faces flushed with golden wine
coy laughter rolls in rustic streets
till in our sight, the river greets

upon the bridge, the Tiber calls
our glances dip and silence falls
with glimmered quill, the waters write
“The time is now to seize the night”

I squeeze her hand, she bites her lip
up to the ledge, I quickly skip
she joins me swiftly, turning pink
with gazes locked, we breathe in sync

with softest hands, I brush her face
and in a move that flows with grace
our parted lips now gently press
and soon enough our tongues caress

the city grins with hushed applause
and through our veins its passion roars
three thousand years of joys refresh
to burn again in mortal flesh
Jaicob Dec 2020
I'll dance in the graceful moonlight
I'll sing with the mourning crows..
I'll walk with you at midnight
On routes we seldom go.

We'll walk away to Rome.
I'd love to go with you.
Anywhere is peaceful there
My eyes leak fresh morning dew.

I look into your eyes, waiting
For a response to me.
Hoping you'll smile back down
And use the pronoun 'we'

My heart swoons, creeping
Along at lazy pace
And finally speeding up again
When it's me whom you embrace.

After sitting next to you,
And staring at the stars,
Finding constellations,
And mapping adventures far,

My eyelids close then silently,
And in your arms I fall under.
Now sleeping peacefully,
My dreams pique wonders.
Phoenix Black Dec 2020
Rome's majesty hangs in the night air
in a haze of amber and gold
illuminating the domes and cypress trees
and clinging to our newly infatuated cheeks
like a million droplets of citrine mist
conjured from the knowing mischief
that imbues the age-old streets

Our formerly suppressed smiles break their bonds
and creep up our faces to sparkle from our eyes
as our fingers entwine
and the columns and porticos look on
winking at us, nudging us,
urging us to cavort with olives and wine
and revel in decadence with the ancients

We cross a bridge over the River Tiber
a dark shimmering ribbon
that subtly beckons us to gaze at its glory
and reminds us like a sly grandfather
that while the city is eternal
we are just mortals
and every second of magic is there to be grasped

Accepting its sage, I squeeze her hand
making her gasp and bite her lip.
I climb up and sit on the edge of the bridge
she joins me and brushes the hair from her face
revealing cheeks that flush pinker by the second.
We stare at each other in silence
against a backdrop of timeless radiance

Her chest rises and falls
but filled with the steel of Caesar's legions
I lean forward and cradle her soft, glowing face
and inhale her sweet, warm breath
before our lips brush and fizzle with delight
caressing softly as the static crackles
until we pant for air

We adjust, reconnect
and sink back into each other
in a swirl of saffron hued enchantment
merging with the city and time
as three millennia of history
alights in rapturous applause, to relive its ecstacies
through our perishable young flesh
Rhys Hebbs Oct 2020
Those that weep,
oh weep ‘neath the shadowy, masked spectre of dreamless sleep,
where time refuses to define the state of the lost divine.
These are feeble sheep whom tragedy is want to reap,
whom when faced with fire turn away from the truth of its healing heat,
it is the Shepard’s of the herd who hurdle false virtues with tenacious leaps.

But why oh why should the best of mankind’s minds all dwell on the tortured side of hell?
They either submit to their anguished musings
or are crowned with the fruits of their immaculate offerings,
there is no compromise.
But who has brought back from the abyss, the truth of it?
and who only offers the seedlings of their sufferings?

Was it Nietche shielding the beaten beast of burden?
Was it Mark Twain is his converse between young and old,
of which motor best foretold mans immortal soul?
Was it Nero playing his fickle fiddle whilst Rome was razed to rubble?
Was it Jim Morrison dying with his wine upon the vine
whilst Indian ghosts crowned his fragile eggshell mind?
Was it Bobby Dylan with his ever changing soul touching his bones via lucrative lexicon?
Was it Julias Ceaser as he crossed with hardened heart across the rubicon?
Was it Buddha sitting ‘neath the quiet of his tree whilst the void whispered to thee?
Was it Jack Kerouac upon that rolling road of soulful life,
embracing with equal measure all love and ceaseless strife?
Was it the nameless brave whom have been lost to the ages
of times endlessly cascading pages?
Will it be You in your pursuit
of what your inner vision holds true?
Will it be me in my turbulent sea of bleeding dreams?
None can say but death itself, for he holds the skeleton keys
I used some of Jim Morrisons poetry to articulate the truth of his condition, I hope this leans within fair use, I will revise if otherwise
Rhys Hebbs Oct 2020
Ivory towers only seek to alienate;
The ones who cherish an elephants grace.
For those who build their homes
out of the bones
of a dying world
will proudly play their fiddles
as all of the chaos and riddles
of a burning Rome unfurls
Lewis Wyn Davies Sep 2020
Body clock set to Vienna day trips,
walks atop the white cliffs of Dover,
avoiding sunburn in Roman forums -

only here it's flexed bare chests,
belly buttons pierce snail trail hair,
while tattoos sweat through skin.

Discount ***** hangs on booming breath,
headache-inducing marijuana stench
crawls up nostrils from inside pockets

like a chef advertising to the streets
via an air vent. Craving cartoon fantasy -
empathy in the world, even for humidity,

as we wait for a break in proceedings,
I pray the thunderstorms bring fresh relief.
Poem #22 from my collection 'A Shropshire Grad'. Reminicsing about the 30-degree heat I've experienced whilst being stuck in work and UK lockdown.
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