Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
in the wisps of mist
stroking the curves
of a sleeping mountain
I hear a call

husky tones
siphoned off
by a cold wind
mocking

I see you still
as a filtered moon
drifts over my lashes
quivering

like the scent of you
as we dance
skin to skin
close
“eye now know
the how, when, where and the-why,
my Eyes compose this elegy
memories of past and present...
blending into memories of future happenstance”

what is chosen is believed
though the choices are presented -
I choose among the sacrificial burnt offerings  

this, my will is free
though the path is circumscribed, ordained

the bus has a route it follows,
but the speed and timing  governed by
chances made by me
and you
me and random things spliced.and sundered

get on me
get off me
get
Art is the music of colours which dazzle so vividly before our eyes that we take it as even more real than life itself--
being intoxicated by its beauty, we want to gladly die unto it as this dying is a gift unto us and we ,being part of it, are made immortal.
Next page