"emanates" poems
a tear drops from her eyes
and it brings no cause
though it quivers with emotion
and the stars do not shine brighter
when polished with her briny tears
but dim their glow and listen
listen!
to her sobbing
but wait
her capillaries will burst!
stop it!
stop it!
its translucence
its opaqueness
the inherent contradictions it produces
and the images it emanates
so while her eyes may open
they are unfocused
and gone
and the click of their judgements is obscene
because her soul has escaped
where has it gone?
she swears she saw it just a moment ago
just a moment
just a moment
just a moment
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 8:29 PM UTC
In your eyes shines universe in the shape of your face.
The stars whisper verses of unconditional love.
Light of the moon emanates with your heart.
Sun burns oath of immortality on my skin.
Planets dance to the music of our souls.
Even the black hole discovered the essence of love.
Stardust wraps our bodies and souls.
Meteorites juggle in space of desire to hit ecstasy of fated land.
Interstellar space is filled with love of devotion.
Electromagnetism guards intimacy of our bodies.
Gravity is jealous about force of our feelings.
Strong impact rising between us.
Space-time continuum is richer in our kisses.
All forms of matter and energy count light years of love head over heels.
Our love was born in the Big Bang's peculiarity,
existes since the dawn of time.
Atoms formed union of our beings.
Star agglomerated in galaxies of fascination and fulfillment.
Supernova of our passion is new kind of cosmic explosion.
The shock wave propagates even in the toes and feet.
We transformed in pure energy.
Expansion of our love accelerates.
Existence has become a paradise on earth, cosmic catharsis.
Love is bliss of *********** with you.
Drink a love potion to the bottom of romanticism.
You will raise where I am.
In you I found the multiverse.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 8:38 AM UTC
There lives a woman who
Seems mystical, even mythical
--It is true--
Because she is biblical;
Rarer than a precious jewel.
She is virtuous
She is loyal
She is courteous...
She is royal.
She shines brilliantly, like a star cluster trapped inside a room.
She glistens like jubilant sun rays dancing atop the ocean.
The wind of her voice sets inspiration in motion,
Like a sonic boom.
She is powerful.
She is virtuous,
Who is worthy? Just
Wonder & coil
In a corner & toil
As you ponder this.
And honor this
Acknowledgment,
Because she is royal.
Don't dare compare her to the likes of
Nefertiti or Isis.
They are not so estimable,
You couldn't buy her even with a million zeros before the decimal,
Because...
She is priceless.
So the King adorned her,
Because the King adores her.
She is beautiful, so they say,
But such a meager word could not suffice,
Because her true charm emanates like waves
In the ardent expression of her practice of life.
And from her mind and her soul.
Her precious heart--more precious than gold--
Looks like a kaleidoscope of rare gems,
Darting dazzling colors; the spectrum in whole.
Diamonds die in comparison,
Hand her a diadem...
She is special
She is jovial
She is gentle
She is royal.
She is not haughty,
Nor does she flaunt like worldly wenches do.
She tells girls who've been told they're peasants they can be a princess too.
She is not naughty,
Nor does she taunt like wanton vixens do...
Because she is godly.
Yes, indeed there lives a woman who
Seems mystical, even mythical
--But it is true--
She is virtuous,
She is royal...
She is you.
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 9:36 AM UTC
Let out my ego and sense of order this comes from beyond this comes from the me between me if I listen I may hear it speaking, it's sleeping but talking and rocking, not still, and perhaps it awakens, perhaps it will open its eye but we mustn't depend on the idea that once he has opened his eye the whole dream of the world will just fade like my dream tomorrow morning which I already know I'll forget, like specific angles and perspectives of specific places in space and time that have slipped away but once in a while break through to consciousness
Like the sliding breakaway walls of Timber Drive elementary school
Or the rippling pond into which I fell and the old smile and laugh of my flesh and blood rescued me and held my body afloat in the air for a moment; and once I was the proud owner of a wind powered hovercraft, another invention spilling out onto the table of attention like the actual pig intestines the popular girl's parents used in her science fair project, the one that dragged on until the last monkey refusing to be locked up with the windows 98s in the archaic computer lab was tranquilized and convulsed on the gym/cafeteria floor in front of the PTA, who'd peed blood all down the front of their sweatpants; he was firing wildly hoping to commit suicide by zookeeper
Not knowing that humanitarian laws would prevent him from achieving his bliss, for the monkey knew as the Gnostics did that to bring a child into this black iron prison is a sin.
Did the Jonestown Kool-aid free them from the prison? Do they now walk among gods within the kingdom of the heavenly spirit? None shall know until the 13 crystal skulls are re-assembled and total gnosis emanates to the people in globe-spanning shockwaves.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 9:08 PM UTC
Waves crash on the pier,
Pure force, a violent bludgeon,
An entity of rage; never ceasing,
The earth in a hopeless war with the sea,
Sediment crumbling; drifting into the expanse,
It is over; it always was, the land in inevitable doom,
The sea has victory, basking in the ruins of ravaged land,
But there emanates a sliver of hope, of rebirth, of prosper,
Ample time has passed; the time has come for a new beginning,
A rumble, a blast, liquid earth explodes out,
Out of the cone, the cone created and of the land,
New earth is born, standing proud, a symbol of persistence,
But the once victorious sea, it is maddened, frustrated, upset,
It is preparing, formulating a new attack,
Thus, tis a cycle, a cycle of create and destroy.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 10:07 AM UTC
my darling krsna,
isn't it time
to put away
that decorated flute
of yours?
knowing well
this is where
soulful melodies
which sustain
the rhythm of the universe
emanates from
let the birds stop singing
the gopis stop dancing
the stars stop shining
and the universe stop expanding
from here on
you belong
to me alone...
eternally yours,
radha
© 2017
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 2:38 PM UTC
Through the veil of the cool mist
my eyes met yours and made a tryst
a promise that our hearts will blend
and our love shall last till the end
over the hills you disappear
and in my dreams reappear
O my delicate snow white rose
ensconced in my poems and prose
O my delicate snow white rose
emanates from my heart a cadence
that resonates with your heavenly fragrance
All the barriers I shall break
My life I shall put on stake
Until I merge with you one day
To be with you forever I pray
From my life please don't vanish
let our love never diminish
petals of your love I shall always cherish
O my delicate snow white rose
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 6:01 AM UTC
I dream of drinking from the river
rushing its abundance of life
through soil beds rich
with unknowing purpose
to reach the sea & combine
with all rivers & make its long journey back
to the tops of mountains
feeding new life & making
the same journey
all over again.
This recycling of life
emanates & pours from every crack,
& every chirp of the cricket
brings a willful reassurance--a notching of time
in the constance of life.
I am here, we are here
& the world is waiting for us
to see its beauty within ourselves,
because I am that beauty & we are all that beauty
& everything we do paints the picture
with different colors, shapes & strokes
& an image of life on this planet
emerges from our collective brush.
Dec 21, 2010
Dec 21, 2010 at 10:32 PM UTC
I want to ask you what you know about yourself?
is it true that God doesn't know how he came about?
he claims he was always here
having no memory prior to his own existence
just like me
perhaps he has no memory at all
a Buddhist or Hindu
will tell you God only lives
in the ever-present now
a self-effulgent light that emanates from a great darkness
from a black mother,
she a vast formless womb
that takes up no space
who we westerners dare never speak of
the patriarchs may tell us
a truth that is a violation of the sacred
is a god a spoke of light deep within her?
archetypes,
**** and **** in love and war
like you and me
a perpetual delicious copulation casting the third eye
during an argument
In the beginning, there was primeval darkness
and she gave birth to light
and he is always everywhere within her
in ecstatic ******
like cherries in flames
their juices boiling oceans
all hot licks and *** soaked *****
a black sulfurous wave and a floating white swan
a howling crime and the remedy
a never-ending paradox
hissing snakes in love
a marriage of heaven and hell
a burdened breath
like a golden city under attack
in tuleries
of blood and glittering fruit
so i ask you what do you know about yourself?
living in this micro dream machine
like god
a creation that creates
by deeds
as trees that weave
and
rot to grieve
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 1:39 PM UTC
I do not love you for your smile,
So welcoming, warm and mischievous,
Or even for your special glance, so demure, meant only for me.
My love is not a reflection of some ensorcellment found in the depths of your jewelled eyes.
I do not love you for your charm,
Your wit and lust for life,
Or for the way you embrace new friends, companions and experiences.
My heart is not a slave to your every touch, bound by a witch's brew of lust, tenderness and desire.
I do not love you for your beauty,
Enchanting as you are,
Not your flawless style and grace or the way you walk a room, every eye captivated by the boundless joy that emanates from within your breast.
I just love you,
Simple as that yet all encompassing.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 12:42 PM UTC
And so this story goes forever
Being held to the ground for being clever
I don't know what these ******* even teach you
But you can't stand for yourself (it's true)
The world emanates the fear of our souls
Expressing what we feel disrupts their goal
Stricken to the bone, we tear our flesh
To show our opinion in a scarring mesh
They make us cover it all or be removed
For professionalism is dictated by what they approve
Hold your head high while you ******* can
Bills are passed to begin the eternal ban
Stripped of our freedoms
Naked and exposed
To invasion of comfort and artistry
I say **** you
And **** them too
For they have nothing to say against our cries of injustice
They know what they do is an expression of narcous
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 11:30 PM UTC
CAN'T YOU FEEL..
The gentle sound of my heartbeat, suddenly pounding with all the intent of tearing me apart-like a lady having anxiety attacks with no help within reach?
CAN'TYOU SEE
This sparkle in ma eyes, suddenly replaced by the look of fear aroused by images deeply ingrained in my memory, Memories you created that now torture even though you meant them to teach?
CAN'T YOU HEAR?
This melodious tune turned a melancholic symphony created by my wailing n sobbing,caused by a voice once therapeutic now at its faintest sound I flinch?
CAN'T YOU SMELL?
The stench of hatred as from us it emanates and slowly it spreads into ds crowded space we share, as little by little, layers of enmity fills the air we breath?
If all these you knew then your senses would interprete
That at your touch I cower; From a feeling once sweet and tender that now drains every ounce of strength and leaves me without power.
That at the sight of these I choose blindness; Away from the ethereal face that at the sight of, leaves me numb
As to your smell I get nauseous; so nauseous
That I taste the bitterness of heartbreak
And hear the sad music my heart will play at the sound of your heart bidding mine farewell
So please, I humbly plead, let me go!
But if break my heart you must n breach my trust,
Then let all we ever shared be counted a loss and from our memories be swept away like dust,
Please! Be fair in your dealings with me I plead
Be kind and just...
For this heart has only started to heal,
Please don't let it rot or rust..
-r3d-
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 9:08 AM UTC
Palms overhead sway,
nudged by the occasional breeze.
The chatter crescendoes
before dying down...
To make way for the call of prayer.
It called to its followers.
So calm...
So sincere...
People hunched over their tables.
Savouring delights that came on plates.
Wafting aromas,
mingle like the swirls on candy.
Drenching our senses...
As we immerse ourselves further
in such good company.
I looked at the eyes that surrounded me...
Only soft, kind gazes greeted back.
There are no shadows here...
No silhouettes...
Only faces I know
generous with their gift of glow.
A rising warmth
emanates from the pits within.
In this here circle,
no matter how motley,
I feel alive.
I'm drinking up to a stupor...
This lovely band of five.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 10:58 PM UTC
“The Maiden”
Over her long legs,
Hips sway in a salacious manner,
As she strolls,
Past the gaggle of gentlemen,
Mustering the valor to face,
Their glances varying from curiosity,
To disgust,
Perhaps intrigue as these men,
Behold this exotic form of femininity.
An aura of mystery emanates,
From a tenderly warm demeanor,
Welcoming the viewers,
Who encounter this daughter of Aphrodite,
Capturing attention regardless of,
One’s alleged reasoning.
Intrepid knights receive the blessing,
To witness the hazel windows,
Into a maiden’s soul,
Deeply adorned with unbidden intensity,
Bestowing a small glimpse,
Into a beguiling beauty,
Mistaken as a cozening siren,
To an untrained eye.
Many chaps desire her,
Until revelations bereave these fellows,
Of security interwoven into the fabric,
Of society sewn with fine threads,
Uniting into an existence of conformity.
Some licentious men lunge,
At the maiden,
Gaping at what these fellows,
Observe as a tantalizing goddess,
Desiring to place lascivious hands,
Upon her soft skin.
Misguided stories allow life to be given,
To glaring spectators,
Spewing jeers of rancor,
Bemused as the unknown,
Deftly saunters near,
The valley of Oblivion.
Like the majestic Mona Lisa,
The maiden consists of subtle nuances,
Painting her tributes behind cryptic techniques,
Allowing one to inspect her façade,
Learning her similarities to the wind,
Feeling her spirit,
Rather than glancing upon visual proof.
The souls encountering the maiden,
Gain respite from strangling thoughts,
Placated by her light,
Revealing the contrasts,
The highlights to expose,
An extraordinary beauty,
Manifesting from genuine kindness,
Breaths of generosity,
And irrevocable love of all shades and tints,
Within a painter’s palate.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 9:15 AM UTC
The known unhappy
cannot infuse its poison
on the unknown happy
because the known unhappy
is merely doing what known unhappys' do
miseries need company as the known unhappy knows
and the known unhappy will always be searching for victims
so know that the known unhappy is already known as unhappy
and all the known unhappy does is because its knows its unhappy
so feel pity for the known unhappy and grace your unknown happiness
For real happiness emanates from within and that's unknown to known unhappiness
for its known that it cannot find happiness, its unknown
Jul 17, 2020
Jul 17, 2020 at 7:44 AM UTC
My Doppelganger holds secret negotiations with my Avatar.
Slicing up the available territory by flipping a coin. Apparently,
I can see a me for myself if I happen to be in Somalia next Monday.
But that’s the Avator talking. Doppelganger is betting on Seattle.
I am eavesdropping, sitting around in my underwear. They
think I am unaware because I can’t see them, but they are
impossible without me.
Goethe, Shelley and John Donne are in the next apartment
huddled over some broken poems each had written on
the mirrors. No mistakes were made. No reflections.
They get to see themselves out of the corner of one eye,
for up to nine seconds which is like a lifetime to remember.
Yet the acrid smell of Neitzsche emanates from dark corners.
Sturm und Drang be ****** Neitzsche is convinced
no one has ever looked like him, but he does suggest
a parallel universe.
Abe Lincoln, a latecomer and unlikely participant, picks up a few pointers.
He knows full well that what he saw was not a reflection. And he rode that train
all the way from Pittsburg. All those windows...
And, yes, KA, the spirit double, the Egyptian Goddess, goes in **** as the
Greek Princess and shows up as Helen to tease Paris of Troy.
How can you not believe that? For Goddess sake, she helped end the Trojan War.
I have a lot of time on my hands. I don’t get out much.
Ava and Dopp came by just to let me know I’m still around.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 4:57 PM UTC
Story after story
Displayed on stories upon stories
Of multiple library floors
In large spacious rooms
Levels of fiction
Nonfiction
Mystery
Poetry
On and on they go
Lined on shelves dauntingly high
Or Child-level low
Artful as featured works in museums
We congregate with hushed voices in examination
Yet we can touch them
We are invited to
We can reach out and remove a piece of history
From the ancient days of scrolls
To the modern pages
We pull them from their places
To discover the wonders within
Sharing in the joy that emanates
From the joining of imaginations
A connection so powerful
It unites the hearts of strangers
We lose ourselves for hours
In our favorite chapters
With our beloved characters
Whom we come to love as precious friends
Reading ignites the imaginative powers of the self
And it all begins by pulling a book off of a shelf
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 5:28 PM UTC
I step gently onto the ground as I glide across the shore, padding with a light caution to protect the un-callused skin coating the bottom of my slightly burnt feet, the covering not yet thick and worn from a full summer of bare use. The sand underfoot is a speckled grey, thoroughly beaten to a fine, almost silky carpet, dark with captured ocean and fresh with salty spray. As the seconds pass, the darkness below fades, and my feet somewhat sink, though they are not engulfed, only hugged around the edges so that if I stepped away, a slight shadow of myself would remain behind. I do not, however, move, and instead, allow the earth to slowly bend for my being. I feel miniscule grains of shell aged several millennia rush between my toes as the sea easily escapes the weak attempt to cage it. The next wave tears in, and I see it frothing and foaming, rabid and furious toward the shore, but as it reaches me, it is little more than a carbonated, salty trickle. As the water laps at my ankles, I turn toward the dunes, away from the infinite horizon and know that the slight depression I have left is already being brushed into oblivion, my only mark flicked aside. As I pad softly away, the ground transforms from bland silk to stained glass. The speckled grey sand brightens to a yellow tan, then fireworks to an endless prism of shells, appearing like millions of hooks, swirls, and bowls, across the now slightly undulating ground. Like stars in the Milky Way floating throughout an endless sea of blackness, the shells are scattered in hued bands across the beach, twinkling with reflected starlight. Above me, doming the serene landscape is an azure sky free from all but a few cotton ***** which have been stretched by the sea fairing breeze to be all but transparent. The smell of salt reaches my nose as a bucolic waft emanates from the expanse to my back. I close my eyes, shading my vision and trusting the peace of my surroundings to hold. The faded calls of gulls echo along the shore and the popping of sea foam bubbles sharpens as my mind turns to rely on the sense of sound. Opening my eyes again, I see nothing of the landscape’s composure has altered. But for all its calm tranquility, isn't it strange, that I am walking through a graveyard.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 9:36 PM UTC
We would never work. I need stability and security. I need safety. But you, you're inherently unsafe. You seek out chaos and conflict intentionally because you think it's interesting. If you were on the Titanic,you'd be pouring champagne and singing while the ship went down. Everyone would be screaming, getting into lifeboats, and you'd be standing there on deck, with your glass of champagne, laughing, and you'd still find your way off the **** boat without even trying.
Are you familiar with the story , "The Monkey's Paw?" There's this magic monkey's paw, like a rabbit's foot kind of, and it grants any three wishes you want . The problem is, for every wish that comes true , there is a terrible, huge cost. Being with you would be my wish. You're everything I want, and everything I'm not, and you would ruin me. You don't consider consequences, and if we were to end, you would move on to the next experience that seems interesting. But I would never recover. Being with you and losing you would devastate me so much that I can't even consider taking that risk.
You're like a high -risk investment. You could make me extremely wealthy, or I'll end up on the street.
I've never known someone with so much anxiety and so little fear.
Face it, the reason you're into feminism isn't because you want to raise up other women-- it's because you want to be held to the same standard as men. You know you're not just better than most women you meet, but that you are smarter, fiercer and more ambitious than most men, too. You want to be recognized as the best PERSON in the room, not just the best woman.
Do you really want me to try and stop you? You don't , because no matter what I say, you're going to do it. If anything the best way to discourage you is to encourage you, but you'll still do what you want anyway.And if you choose not to do it, it won't be on moral grounds, but just because you want to deny yourself a passion to prove that you can say no to yourself, that you have control, and that's not much better than doing it anyway, isn't it?
You are the strongest woman I've ever met. You hardly ever know what you want, but when you think you want something, you go out and get it. You never hesitate, you ignore your fear, and you don't care about morality. Sometimes though, you feel ashamed of yourself , and hide in your charms. You do it for so long and try so hard that you forget yourself. Don't forget yourself. You seek out people who have the passion and motivation you think you lack, but you have these things more than anyone. And most of all, you are powerful. I can't explain the power that emanates from you, but it's like a force of nature. You can't hide it and you shouldn't. You need chaos and conflict and madness to keep going, because you ARE chaotic, conflicted and mad.You need to stop feeling guilty and afraid of yourself, and be the person you are, not the person you think you should be.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 2:14 AM UTC
Sketches of being nonchalant through symphonies of unsent letters. Playing.
Drinking the melancholy through a cloudless night, alone. Swings betrayed.
Stealing the numbers, sitting in the blue, sinking.
How red the moon hangs below?
How crushed are the fairy lanterns?
She lived. She died. She survived.
To breed a demon within.
She wanted a pause. She wanted a release. Not weeping. Not longing. Surviving.
To breach the silence its thickness, She pretends to crumble her summer.
Idle musings to feel the blade cut of the grass, dancing barefoot, losing a grip.
As laughter emanates, pockmarked with a mortal sense, trying the road, less.
Inhaling does not hurt anymore. And nor does the whiskey in her tone.
From her hidden detritus, she laughs.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
(Is there an emotion for mystical? I suppose it would be to be mystified. Perhaps awe is the word I am looking for. I was in awe at the sight of him! I was beyond mystified!)
It started in the Yellow Wastelands. Where life went to die. As life dies there, they become a part of the Yellow Wasteland adding to his spread and growth becoming a sort of crystalline lattice. All go willingly to the crystalline whisper. The whisper in recent theory emanates from the shining yellow crystals that grow among the Yellow Wasteland like blue bonnets in the Texas spring. Once the Whisper is heard the victim willingly partakes in what we call The March. The March is a mindless saunter to The Yellow Wasteland where upon arrival they lay in the yellow dirt and slowly begin crystalizing. We have tried stopping The March. But have been unsuccessful for many years. During the state of the march the victim gains a strange, extraordinary ability to control others as they see fit. If one or a group of people, try and prevent the march they will be controlled by the whisper to put the victim back on track. The final equation that we cannot solve is why one hears the whisper. There seems to be no pattern whatsoever.
On this day my daughter heard the whisper. We walked with her for hours on end. My wife and son followed shortly behind whilst I walked beside her talking about memories and music. My son then caught up and started to play his lute. He played song after song and sang beautiful lyrics that they wrote together. My wife would then catch up to fix our daughters hair and clean her face as we walked and walked toward The Yellow Wasteland. There were times where we would walk all together in a line and pray and pray.
Over the Wolf's crossing trail was a hill. The hill was now called.
" The Last Ascend." The Yellow Wasteland can be seen below. We started the ascend up the last ascend. Tears flooded all our eyes as we were powerless to stop The March.
Feb 1, 2024
Feb 1, 2024 at 2:13 PM UTC
The strokes,
of my brush,
against the Canvas,
depict the features,
forming the image,
of you,
my Romeo.
Hazel eyes mesmerize me,
revealing the key,
to your soul.
An alluring smile,
intrigues my interest,
dreaming of your lips,
caressing my own.
The view of your form,
exposes your body,
embellished in ******
similar to the gods,
of Greek and Roman antiquity,
intoxicates me.
As I finish,
my masterpiece,
temptation persuades me,
to move towards,
you,
my male model,
to render,
my artistic expression.
You gaze into my eyes,
yearning to taste,
my lips as passion emanates,
from our kiss.
You come closer to me,
removing my blouse,
with your firm hands,
brushing against my torso.
You lower yourself down,
to your knees,
unzipping my paint-splattered jeans,
with your teeth.
After the removal,
of my garments,
you carry me,
into the bedroom,
gently placing,
me upon your bed.
Your breath warms,
my skin,
as you strike,
my exterior,
with the blade of lust,
fiercely thrusting,
in the heat,
of the night.
Our bodies unite,
interweaving our souls,
igniting an intimate explosion,
between ourselves,
consuming our spirits.
A safe haven,
becomes my reality,
as I lay into your arms,
whispering sweet nothings,
to enchant your ears.
I drift into slumber,
resting my head,
upon your chest,
holding your hand,
as my world,
is at peace.
I awake before you,
leaving to create works of art,
write sensual poetry,
reflecting on my thoughts,
of you,
to reveal my admiration,
for you,
my soul-mate,
brought to me,
by the hands of Venus.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 2:42 PM UTC
Carcass of an old
Self
Death paves way for
Regeneration - a service gifted
Within one generation
Without alienation
Dips and follies only culminate in the diamond from coal
My heart sits where he sits
Now, I'm the same wounded healer
No night time dealers beware
We know survival skills -
We are soft but we could ****
Touch the hummingbirds wing
Send fear running
We quick , we cunning
Evade the fortress walls
Tumble the towers with rose petal showers
Weapon of choice - a smile
Business card states that I spread love and he spreads laughter
You know we ain't after cash
But that's the whiplash
Anyway
We were born to play , so we play it well , better than I'd care to tell
Stay humble leave no room to grumble
Keep the tune light , till we ignite the daytime night
My soul is his soul and his soul is mine
It's not essential so we ignore space and time
No way to express the words that don't flow when the energy exchange is enough to know , my child's father
My lover is harmonies peals and sweet serenading appeals
I , gift , me unto you , the wrapping is golden but the present is still hidden
A surprise for the patient wounded healers healed in each other- ready to heal anew
Both of us - asleep in our parallel worlds under the umbrella of ambient lighting
A shameless copy of the pure sunlight
That emanates from their bodies
When they collide on the material
Plane .
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 9:16 AM UTC