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D William L Jun 25
Poor little girl. Stupid old man.
She could not talk,
He could not dance.
Poor little girl. Stupid old man.

She wanted to see the world,
he'd seen it all before.
Poor little girl. Stupid old man.

She could run and climb the hills for hours,
he could only sit and smell the flowers.
Poor little girl. Stupid old man.

Her love spread free, her heart thumped proud,
his pulse it barely made a sound.
Poor little girl. Stupid old man.

She needed to be needed,
he just wanted to be loved.
Poor little girl. Stupid old man.

Her smile was bright, and shone like gold,
His eyes were grey and growing old.
Poor little girl. Stupid old man.

She would dream in vivid color,
he'd reminisce in black and white.
Poor little girl. Stupid old man.

She wanted to swim in all the streams,
he longed only, for one lone sea.
Poor little girl. Stupid old man.

She liked to whisper, lips to ear,
He only spoke aloud and clear.
Poor little girl. Stupid old man.

He wanted to build,
she'd only dance in her dreams,
things never felt,
as they'd make them seem.
Poor little girl. Stupid old man.
D William L Jun 25
She didn't see herself the way he saw her.
Her gentle, warm beauty, so full of youth.
Charmingly un-effusive and humble,
though very much a lady,
she still held a girlish charm
that tugged at his heart strings.
He looked down at her from the balcony
as she played.
He delicate little fingers giving life to the piano,
sending soft, euphonious notes throughout
the sunlit room,
like a kaleidoscope of butterflies that kissed
his earlobes as they passed.
He knew she was oblivious to what she was
making him feel.
She was unconscious to the ways in which she
filled every chamber of his heart,
every alcove of his mind,
every apartment of his soul,
with the tones of her piano.
D William L Jun 25
As two flowers swaying on a hill,
standing side by side,
who can only touch and feel their kiss,
when the wind blows them together.

Each momentary tickle of your tender little petals,
send waves of love and joy carefree,
before the wind pulls you away from me.

And I can only wait and marvel,
at your colors in the sun,
until that bittersweet wind will come and blow,
our longing blossoms together again.

So close but yet so far.
D William L Dec 2018
Oh we meaningless beings,
birthed from chance.
Who create meaning,
that will no longer exist,
when we are extinct.

For when we're gone,
so will be meaning.
So will be love.
And we will have no successors,
no beneficiary to give sympathy.

As a dream we had and never shared,
before we joined the ranks of those that passed on.
Only crude objects left,
which we gave more importance to than the reasons they were created.

Where if we had,
I'd still be here to share with you today.
D William L Dec 2018
A treasure. I cannot help it.
I endearingly hold each kiss as precious as the first.
The sweet and tender touch of her lips, rolls my very soul like the sea's tide,
and I float helplessly in their ebb and flow.
And, as each kiss draws,
to its bittersweet close,
just as the tide pulls away,
my lips draw helplessly with hers,
as a sparrow's feather rides wave's break,
and comes to rest on the beach of kiss' end,
I wait longingly for her lip's next tide,
to carry me away again.
D William L Dec 2018
Bound to my gurney by straps of lassitude, I lay immobile.

My limbs fruitlessly petition for strength.

Eyes so innervated even dark colored objects cause sunspots.

The brain, beaten and isolated from the body.

Obscure syntax and sentence structure circle fitfully and spasmically inside the skull, bouncing off its walls like a bullet from a crazed killer's pistol.

Hours of dormancy pass and pass again, as monotone as the ticking of the clock.

Recalling memories of these days produce nothing more than hazy coruscations of temporary consciousness, recording only the fading evolution of the day's light on the wall.

Blinding shades of titanium white,

falling victim to sun kissed ambers,

and bowing to the charcoal darkness of the still, empty night.
D William L Dec 2018
Here is the womb of life,
the death of our mind's night.
New eyes that long to open,
new wings that spread to flight.

An awakening of the hands,
souls shed ephemeral strife.
The heart here born new purpose,
in this the womb of life.

No god, no king, no roots hold might,
each one so frail in this new light.
For here stands love, its meaning right,
here is the womb of life.
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