#mourningdove
You... me... both of us and two cups of coffee,
a sweet, red wine and a scented Yankee candle,
our eyes are whispering to each other, as sweet toffee
love can no longer be delayed, but handled.
In the background, Zamfir's famous pan flute,
dropping lava in my blood, not on the roads,
wherever I go, just rose petals in their suit
our hearts beat in tandem until they explode.
We are the encyclopedia of abundant feelings,
we are the actors of an interesting start,
life resembles a tragicomedy written on the ceilings
at the thought of being followed by a kiss from the heart.
Me... you... us... and a beginning of a love story,
we have to be patient and take care not to crush
the butterflies I annoyed on my wall from the dormitory
not to lose them in the labyrinth of love in our rush.
There will be feelings that maybe will grow,
for we are always running after eternal love,
or maybe they will fade, for the fear of saying hello,
and then we ask for more time from the mourning dove.
But let's give to Time what we owe ... time.
Time is you... Time is me... we are both,
this season wouldn't starve us, it would be a crime,
palm in palm we'd pass through waves and take an oath.
We inspire love and we expire a naive passion,
the past would be just a small curse
dazzling us with many kinds of affection,
whispering our names through its silent verse.
It's your wave... my wave... it's our wave,
we only have air to breathe abruptly while we ascend,
we haunt our own thoughts while we crave
for the expiry date to never come to an end.
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 5:59 PM UTC
L14: No, ***** but...enjoy the moment.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXVIII)
The mourning dove ere twilight yield calls, whence
Orange winks upon thet waking thought's detail,
And lo, I hear it softly coo. Grey mists in frail
Nigh ghostly touch a thin suggestion, thence
Do maples faintly shiver in suspense?
I thank the LORD for that voice on the pale
First notes of whither, erst wont to avail
My soul, and dawn sifts through to crown that sense.
How Joey worked "each day this week," yet fer
All that's forever on my mind. What, to
Effect, now does the culver's song as twere
Mean? How I used to know. Or thought I knew.
Now like a memry of sweet days lost, poor
Though what be? Does it bless our hopeful dew?
05Jul17b
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 8:16 PM UTC