"entreat" poems
i like
to think that on
the flower you gave me when we
loved
the far-
departed mouth sweetly-saluted
lingers.
if one marvel
seeing the hunger of my
lips for a dead thing,
i shall instruct
him silently with becoming
steps to seek
your face and i
entreat,by certain foolish perfect
hours
dead too,
if that he come receive
him as your lover sumptuously
being
kind
because i trust him to
your grace,and for
in his own land
he is called death.
32.2k
i'm your o so wanna be lover
I'm afraid not what you would expect though
i admit to being a difficult pleasure
perhaps
a tad strange looking
squishy with long tentacles
half man half octopus
with a winking cycloptic eye
i entreat you
looks can be deceiving
how many pretty boys have you loved
crawling worms for a soul
that have left you a ruined creel
a jagged cry chattering tears of desolation
have you ever asked your self
who adores you
who would give all to protect love and cherish
i'm waving my eight arms at you
from the center of the universe
i eat black holes to kiss your ***
am i not a cosmic horror
with my big Cthulhu smile
quivering with tenderness
do you hunger for butter **** lollypop
i have two big **** heartbreakers
with teardrop curves
a feast for your ravenous holes of emptiness
and many armed tentacles to hold you tight
to slither all over your tender woven caves
to pull you into me
with suckers that thrill
during swirling inky *****
i will unravel your mind
your soul tilthed
if you can get passed
my
gray rubbery boneless head
i can push this shape-shifting balloon face
through your annul tubular contours
all the way up your beautiful ***
licking
salivating
tickling into your
tender bowel and throat
like a great dancing tongue
a stretched waving goodness
entering your mouth from the back side
can pretty pretty do that?
come slowly unto me my beloved
i am all chromatophores
endless glittering nightlights
incandescent
so we may wander our way through long dim nights ******
in the deep deep dark
with tentacle ***** galore
an infinity of entertainment
for every crevice and desire
and one winking cycloptic eye
that pierces your soul
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 3:31 PM UTC
My sun has set, I dwell
In darkness as a dead man out of sight;
And none remains, not one, that I should tell
To him mine evil plight
This bitter night.
I will make fast my door
That hollow friends may trouble me no more.
"Friend, open to Me."--Who is this that calls?
Nay, I am deaf as are my walls:
Cease crying, for I will not hear
Thy cry of hope or fear.
Others were dear,
Others forsook me: what art thou indeed
That I should heed
Thy lamentable need?
Hungry should feed,
Or stranger lodge thee here?
"Friend, My Feet bleed.
Open thy door to Me and comfort Me."
I will not open, trouble me no more.
Go on thy way footsore,
I will not rise and open unto thee.
"Then is it nothing to thee? Open, see
Who stands to plead with thee.
Open, lest I should pass thee by, and thou
One day entreat My Face
And howl for grace,
And I be deaf as thou art now.
Open to Me."
Then I cried out upon him: Cease,
Leave me in peace:
Fear not that I should crave
Aught thou mayst have.
Leave me in peace, yea trouble me no more,
Lest I arise and chase thee from my door.
What, shall I not be let
Alone, that thou dost vex me yet?
But all night long that voice spake urgently:
"Open to Me."
Still harping in mine ears:
"Rise, let Me in."
Pleading with tears:
"Open to Me that I may come to thee."
While the dew dropped, while the dark hours were cold:
"My Feet bleed, see My Face,
See My Hands bleed that bring thee grace,
My Heart doth bleed for thee,
Open to Me."
So till the break of day:
Then died away
That voice, in silence as of sorrow;
Then footsteps echoing like a sigh
Passed me by,
Lingering footsteps slow to pass.
On the morrow
I saw upon the grass
Each footprint marked in blood, and on my door
The mark of blood forevermore.
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360
Death sets a Thing significant
The Eye had hurried by
Except a perished Creature
Entreat us tenderly
To ponder little Workmanships
In Crayon, or in Wool,
With “This was last Her fingers did”—
Industrious until—
The Thimble weighed too heavy—
The stitches stopped—by themselves—
And then ’twas put among the Dust
Upon the Closet shelves—
A Book I have—a friend gave—
Whose Pencil—here and there—
Had notched the place that pleased Him—
At Rest—His fingers are—
Now—when I read—I read not—
For interrupting Tears—
Obliterate the Etchings
Too Costly for Repairs.
5.3k
Sweet death, have me tarry not,
greet me, for comes the morn.
Cheat the sun, that I may sleep,
complete as if ne'er born.
Entreat, do I, your embrace.
Defeat my heartbeat this night.
Meet me mid a last dreaming,
secrete this soul from sight
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 9:14 PM UTC
I would in that sweet ***** be
(O sweet it is and fair it is!)
Where no rude wind might visit me.
Because of sad austerities
I would in that sweet ***** be.
I would be ever in that heart
(O soft I knock and soft entreat her!)
Where only peace might be my part.
Austerities were all the sweeter
So I were ever in that heart.
4.6k
Aye, Vladimir, just before I met thee
I hath been sure I hath loved him-
no matter as queer as it may hath seemed!
Thou knowest not, how much tears I hath shredded
and noticest not, how t'eir vanity made me look dead!
But why-why then didst thou appear-
and wokest within me t'is secret fear-
with understanding in thy eyes,
and with a love t'at is to me so dear.
Why-why t'en thou left me, left me again!
Whenst I got to knowest thou but for a moment,
ah, with not so much of an endearment-
afforded ourselves only t'at streak of lovely,
but still weak of too a bond,
or any pact, of young novelty.
And everything was corrupt
As soon as thou re-released me
into t'ese qualms of insincerity
wherest I am still tossed about, guilty.
And hushed, hushed always,
like a trivial, parallel wind!
As though my dear heart's bathed in sin
and of a soul t'at is so thin
So worthy not of thy soulfulness
and sweet dreams of many happinesses.
Ah, Vladimir! If only thou could knowest
T'is thread of passion thou hath sowed
and how my entirety seekest being loved
By thee, and only by thee, o my rain!
As thou art but king to my sneaky moon
and my very own kingdom of stars
Not him-not him, o t'is I entreat,
albeit his wits hath been but to me so sweet.
Still he be a mistake, ah, a chilly autumn mistake
to me, from whom I didst just turn awake.
Probably thou would hath loved me;
imperishably and blindingly,
until all thy superb charms and wit
t'at wert but tortured and unbending
shalt be left within me lit;
and thus leaving our fiery souls entwined
with winds t'at art even sweeter
yet might be torturously everlasting.
Vladimir, Vladimir, oh my only Vladimir!
Thou altogether belongst with me; here,
so unjustly yet heavenly
And in our hands is cherished
our love, o, so wickedly-but fatefully!
How I longst to be thy lover, dearest-
and be so comely as thy only flower;
which ripens thickly in thy winter
and blooms robustly, in thy summer.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 7:07 AM UTC
Symphony No.9 in d – minor, opus 125
Allegro ma non troppo
The silence gives way gently
to quiet tremolos rustling
beneath the beckoning
call of distant horns.
A melodic cell, nascent in violins,
spirals down to the somber depths
of cello and contrabass.
A sudden cataclysm
shakes the hall like thunder
heralding our universal birth.
Gales of sonic force
splashed like turbulent waves
against the rocky shores.
Drifting sans glass or sextant
on a sea of expanding mystery,
we gaze to the heavens
in hopes for a glimpse
of our father’s aetherial dwelling.
Molto vivace
With hands intertwined,
we dance in a ring
to the capricious airs
of the laughing gods
with Zeus himself on timpani.
So pass the wine and kiss your neighbor
and fill your glass to the brim!
For today is yesterday’s morrow
and tomorrow’s history.
Adagio molto e cantabile
There is no greater and more healing light
than the candles that shine
in the eyes of a friend
or loving spouse -
tenderly lighting our paths
through the storms and fogs
that cloud our lives.
Peace abides in a friend's embrace.
An die Freude
Against raging storms of
strife and sorrow.
we hear a healing voice
A calm cello hymn -
that migrates up to higher cords
of violas and violins -
breaking into joyous song
sung by trumpets, winds and drums.
Casting all shrillness of discord aside,
a baritone lines out Schiller’s ode -
and sings of Elysium’s daughter.
Quartet and chorus enter in
proclaiming hope for the human family,
A tenor raises a stein to valor
in the company of his friends.
The quiet pulsing of horns and winds
ushers in torrents of ecstasy.
Arms clasped in communal embrace,
we gaze to heaven on bended knees
then rise with a majestic fugue
that illuminates our souls
like a blazing Alpine dawn.
In a cyclone of passion,
Schiller's words and Beethoven's notes
entreat us to restore
what custom has rent apart
that each of us may live our lives
as brothers in heavenly sanctuary.
May 25, 2007
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC
I shall forget you presently, my dear,
So make the most of this, your little day,
Your little month, your little half a year,
Ere I forget, or die, or move away,
And we are done forever; by and by
I shall forget you, as I said, but now,
If you entreat me with your loveliest lie
I will protest you with my favorite vow.
I would indeed that love were longer-lived,
And vows were not so brittle as they are,
But so it is, and nature has contrived
To struggle on without a break thus far,—
Whether or not we find what we are seeking
Is idle, biologically speaking.
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If trees be poems by the earth
In avid joy I read each one
Florets writ in fragrant verse
Inked with beams of the morning sun
In shade, a fruit, a whiff of air
I rest beneath wide branches spread
A cavort of emerald canopy
Bestows comfort upon my breath
I lean against the bark, recline
And think of how it stands in time
Through tunneled years it's stoic trunk
Stands proud against frost and rain
Drops it's leaves to nakedness
Till spring dresses in green again
On but an arm, the koel sings
'Tis home to birds that weave a nest
Haven to sojourners ache
Clasp around, hold close to breast
I trace the names of love engraved
Now forgot; asleep in graves
On felled bark my soul I pen
On papyrus the past I feel
The murmured songs of sentiments
In susurrus as branches kneel.
Nymphs would hide or fairies entreat
With fireflies in silver light
Creatures tip toe on their feet
Lithe, in the darkness of the night
In engraved lines meaning I see
What better song, what poetree?
Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky - Gibran
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 9:38 AM UTC
Calm, sad, secure; behind high convent walls,
These watch the sacred lamp, these watch and pray:
And it is one with them when evening falls,
And one with them the cold return of day.
These heed not time; their nights and days they make
Into a long returning rosary,
Whereon their lives are threaded for Christ's sake;
Meekness and vigilance and chastity.
A vowed patrol, in silent companies,
Life-long they keep before the living Christ.
In the dim church, their prayers and penances
Are fragrant incense to the Sacrificed.
Outside, the world is wild and passionate;
Man's weary laughter and his sick despair
Entreat at their impenetrable gate:
They heed no voices in their dream of prayer.
They saw the glory of the world displayed;
They saw the bitter of it, and the sweet;
They knew the roses of the world should fade,
And be trod under by the hurrying feet.
Therefore they rather put away desire,
And crossed their hands and came to sanctuary
And veiled their heads and put on coarse attire:
Because their comeliness was vanity.
And there they rest; they have serene insight
Of the illuminating dawn to be:
Mary's sweet Star dispels for them the night,
The proper darkness of humanity.
Calm, sad, secure; with faces worn and mild:
Surely their choice of vigil is the best?
Yea! for our roses fade, the world is wild;
But there, beside the altar, there is rest.
2.3k
Away! the moor is dark beneath the moon,
Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of even:
Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon,
And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven.
Pause not! the time is past! Every voice cries, ‘Away!’
Tempt not with one last tear thy friend’s ungentle mood:
Thy lover’s eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay:
Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude.
Away, away! to thy sad and silent home;
Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth;
Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come,
And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth.
The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thine head,
The blooms of dewy Spring shall gleam beneath thy feet:
But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead,
Ere midnight’s frown and morning’s smile, ere thou and peace, may meet.
The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose,
For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep;
Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows;
Whatever moves or toils or grieves hath its appointed sleep.
Thou in the grave shalt rest:—yet, till the phantoms flee,
Which that house and heath and garden made dear to thee erewhile,
Thy remembrance and repentance and deep musings are not free
From the music of two voices, and the light of one sweet smile.
2.3k
When thou, poor excommunicate
From all the joys of love, shalt see
The full reward and glorious fate
Which my strong faith shall purchase me,
Then curse thine own inconstancy.
A fairer hand than thine shall cure
That heart which thy false oaths did wound;
And to my soul a soul more pure
Than thine shall by Love’s hand be bound,
And both with equal glory crowned.
Then shalt thou weep, entreat, complain
To Love, as I did once to thee;
When all thy tears shall be as vain
As mine were then, for thou shalt be
Damned for thy false apostasy.
2.2k
Totally like whatever, you know?
by Taylor Mali
In case you hadn’t noticed,
it has somehow become uncool
to sound like you know what you’re talking about?
Or believe strongly in what you’re saying?
Invisible question marks and parenthetical (you know?)’s
have been attaching themselves to the ends of our sentences?
Even when those sentences aren’t, like, questions? You know?
Declarative sentences—so-‐called
because they used to, like, DECLARE things to be true, okay,
as opposed to other things are, like, totally, you know, not—
have been infected by a totally hip
and tragically cool interrogative tone? You know?
Like, don’t think I’m uncool just because I’ve noticed this;
this is just like the word on the street, you know?
It’s like what I’ve heard?
I have nothing personally invested in my own opinions, okay?
I’m just inviting you to join me in my uncertainty?
What has happened to our conviction?
Where are the limbs out on which we once walked?
Have they been, like, chopped down
with the rest of the rain forest?
Or do we have, like, nothing to say?
Has society become so, like, totally . . .
I mean absolutely . . . You know?
That we’ve just gotten to the point where it’s just, like . . .
whatever!
And so actually our disarticulation . . . ness
is just a clever sort of . . . thing
to disguise the fact that we’ve become
the most aggressively inarticulate generation
to come along since . . .
you know, a long, long time ago!
I entreat you, I implore you, I exhort you,
I challenge you: To speak with conviction.
To say what you believe in a manner that bespeaks
the determination with which you believe it.
Because contrary to the wisdom of the bumper sticker,
it is not enough these days to simply QUESTION AUTHORITY.
You have to speak with it, too.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 7:27 AM UTC
when you love,
you’re a country,
pierced by daily border
exchanged crossings,
to your closest neighbor
and though,
one rerun~returns home by night,
to your prior defining borderlines,
somehow
the externals of the container has
had its internality's modified
for the lines that prior defined
have altered
by passing the
point of prior,
now by thousands of
tiny holes breaching the
thickened protective lining,
by love punches ‘n kisses of
pinprick punctures
the resistance,
pulverized
<>
you are changed,
new language combos spoken,
embrace another with a
bilingual tonguing,
a real treat
to entreat each other and
that hyphen,
that little tiny
linear
~
punctuation mark is
reflecting your creativity of a
Singular Duality
it is mark that
speaks to a new
U~no individuality,
blended and connected
somehow a duo of
someone’s pulverized lines
forms a single stronger
chord
first a puncture
then a patching
finally
an adhesion pleasuring
and a new working word:
composite
the opposite
of
opposite*
Nov 14, 2024
Nov 14, 2024 at 7:26 AM UTC
Lord God that dost me save and keep,
All day to thee I cry;
And all night long, before thee weep
Before thee prostrate lie.
Into thy presence let my praier
With sighs devout ascend
And to my cries, that ceaseless are,
Thine ear with favour bend.
For cloy’d with woes and trouble store
Surcharg’d my Soul doth lie,
My life at death’s uncherful dore
Unto the grave draws nigh.
Reck’n'd I am with them that pass
Down to the dismal pit
I am a *man, but weak alas * Heb. A man without manly
And for that name unfit. strength.
From life discharg’d and parted quite
Among the dead to sleep
And like the slain in ****** fight
That in the grave lie deep.
Whom thou rememberest no more,
Dost never more regard,
Them from thy hand deliver’d o’re
Deaths hideous house hath barr’d.
Thou in the lowest pit profound’
Hast set me all forlorn,
Where thickest darkness hovers round,
In horrid deeps to mourn.
Thy wrath from which no shelter saves
Full sore doth press on me;
*Thou break’st upon me all thy waves, *The Heb.
*And all thy waves break me bears both.
Thou dost my friends from me estrange,
And mak’st me odious,
Me to them odious, for they change,
And I here pent up thus.
Through sorrow, and affliction great
Mine eye grows dim and dead,
Lord all the day I thee entreat,
My hands to thee I spread.
Wilt thou do wonders on the dead,
Shall the deceas’d arise
And praise thee from their loathsom bed
With pale and hollow eyes ?
Shall they thy loving kindness tell
On whom the grave hath hold,
Or they who in perdition dwell
Thy faithfulness unfold?
In darkness can thy mighty hand
Or wondrous acts be known,
Thy justice in the gloomy land
Of dark oblivion?
But I to thee O Lord do cry
E’re yet my life be spent,
And up to thee my praier doth hie
Each morn, and thee prevent.
Why wilt thou Lord my soul forsake,
And hide thy face from me,
That am already bruis’d, and *shake *Heb. Prae Concussione.
With terror sent from thee;
Bruz’d, and afflicted and so low
As ready to expire,
While I thy terrors undergo
Astonish’d with thine ire.
Thy fierce wrath over me doth flow
Thy threatnings cut me through.
All day they round about me go,
Like waves they me persue.
Lover and friend thou hast remov’d
And sever’d from me far.
They fly me now whom I have lov’d,
And as in darkness are.
1.9k
I entreat you, Alfred Tennyson,
Come and share my haunch of venison.
I have too a bin of claret,
Good, but better when you share it.
Tho' 'tis only a small bin,
There's a stock of it within.
And as sure as I'm a rhymer,
Half a **** of Rudeheimer.
Come; among the sons of men is one
Welcomer than Alfred Tennyson?
1.8k
Oh wilderness' soul ― I Beseech thee !
I feel your deepest awakening secrets stir
Whispers uttered in immortal Winds
Calling to the Fountains of my soul
Standing the hairs of comfortably numb
Spilled breath bestrewn upon frayed Mortality
Oh wilderness' soul ― I Bequeath thee !
The ashes the deepest Oceans my heart
As circadian Tides have ebb and flowed
Forsaken feigned love’s misbegotten guise
Now chastened sightless before an unseen labyrinth
Beset by a human blindness that decays all light
Oh wilderness' soul ― I Entreat thee !
Cleanse this molted flesh ― time shed ―
Artifacts of perfectly imperfect traces
Reminders of things we strive to forget
For in the self-loathed aching Silence
I feel the urgent pull of Wilderness' Soul
Reaching out ― Benignly
to Entomb my Heart and Soul
Someone you used to know April 1st, 2017
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 7:49 PM UTC
A billiard table imprints its damp shadow
on a yellow wooden floor. The game still
unbegun, mere fragment of the sorrow
felt by the patrons whose wilted heads will
still be here tomorrow, if tomorrow comes.
Red walls distended by burning lamps
and burned out hearts beating blood through ear drums:
Reverie to the night god / Dreaming tramps
drowning in their heads in lakes of absinthe
color of the ceiling better than being
awake but indefinitely absent.
The lamps blink, eyes floating, speak all-seeing:
Vincent, let us meet before you entreat
the crows out of your head into the wheat.
Sep 16, 2020
Sep 16, 2020 at 10:33 AM UTC
when winter thaws
and our delicate red noses
turn to gold
Again.
After years of solace
might you entreat a glance
from bewildered eyes
that sing songs of stolen years
and seasons past
and unrealized summers
ripe with ifs and
Suns,
and overgrown fields
to shield us from the world
and shiver in the wandering breeze
with that hands brush upon your
cheeks and long, summer arms
to whisk your hair about
in strained fits
to hearken lovers lips;
an entire tryst
In the ascendency of summer...
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC
Put this matter with trowel and ***
Into the dark and fertile ground,
With each hit, he loosed the soil
A once happy man thou condemned to uselessly toil
His claws, cracked and broken shells
Jaundiced with the duty long days that did require
Lamed by grief and forced to work
Here, till the end of days, within this garden, this mire.
Deep does a ****** live here, past the clay and bedrock
Like the pride and valor and resolute spirit of the domineering ****
Or so her mien, it does beget
Or some other erroneous sentiment
That she, not he, were to bear this labor.
Within the ground, he did remember, in his spritely youth,
He planted, and thought none of, but a seed,
Into this verdant splendor, which bore that infernal ****
And, thence, thereof came a fruit,
Of malignity infinite,
All the while it poisoned the Virgin’s white and water’s pure,
As its eerie little spines proceeded to take root.
Her garments poised to emulate white, instead
The ****** to him, had lost her white
Or never had white at all,
The ****** to him, had lost her white,
To him, the ****** was dead.
The fruit and seed, effulgent and pretty, to those who saw them bloom
Attractive were they so to them, irresistible to behold
That they, to him with great chagrin, did immediately consume.
“But the ****** he cried. “The ****** has poisoned them!”
Yet they continued to eat.
“We do not believe you,” they replied, and slept ceaselessly on their feet.
One by one did they all collapse from the toxin of its juice.
The ****** watched and laughed, of caution was there no use.
Powerless and sullen, he stood, for remedy was far passed.
The ****** now regarded with delight,
Has he, poor, poor man, to tend to his blight.
The garden gone, its cleanliness perverted,
His words were ignored, and thrown wayside,
His admonition he so heatedly asserted,
The ****** her words never to be trusted
Had won over the people, whose homes she sought to entreat,
And with her rite, so treasured, so adored,
They enslaved and force him to his mire, to tend to the rag and filthy lands
Where he would remain with the garden
His words, his skin so like the sands
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 7:44 AM UTC
Thank you for
the wish-you-were-here photo
that you emailed today,
so soft, beautiful, and peaceful,
your fairyland winter,
a reminder to entreat you
"please, please keep it there!"
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 8:30 PM UTC
Two ducks quack a lover's fued
Coffee steam is rising well away
From he that burns here in
Ashen lava pools my hand
Falls in and melts away only
To regrow holding a snowdrop
Unscathed by wrath which boils
She turns about and says speaking
Low to threat 'go then' I can
Only offer the flower which melts
In the act. I entreat the flames retreat
The belly of the world spits souls
Into fresh bodies morphet anew
From old, not so but middle-aged
Sacred **** lived beyond the reach
Of time that ticks and claws
All downward were it not for life
Anew time might win.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
heritage of her long preamble **********
the quick note stencilled on sticky note
seemed not only incomplete but irrational
'plead not the day to the jury of night
its light deceives the dark into seeking
solace for its own death'
her heritage thought troubles the waves
sending its silent after effects spreading across the
waters to which we fled for safe harbour in evening's birth
we swim to shore
and explore nothing but sand on beachhead
and eachothers fumbling in near perfect dark
before dawn could streak the sky
with the golden lances of the sun
as day wrestles the sky from night
contending with eachother
revealing to our new born eyes
the fanfare that light gives the day
she stood on this stage
and did pronounce loudly
entreat the light to forsake the day
join the night
as she and i had
as lovers
then the golden lances of dawn
would be the stems of roses
from one lover to the other
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
he is lying, sound asleep
his breath expelled with the careful calculation
of a heart wide awake
wide open-
wondering, what would it be like
to take that heart between my fingers
hold it close
pry the sides apart and kiss
all there was to see?
running through the vessels are images
the sweetest, the most honest
he has never been so bare
dancing amongst his bloodstream
is me, are his dreams
his secrets-
shut the heart like a diary, put it back in place
pressing it lovingly
lying once more, by his side, studying his curtained eyes
that unconscious smile at my heaviness
the mattress is a little lumpy, God knows
but there are blankets aplenty
it was me who guided him here
weary, tired but still gleeful
into my arms
my ******* act as pillows, and as his head rises with my chest
overwhelmed becomes me, tears ***** my eyes
fall into mine and his sunshine and bonfire hair
tickles his freckles
pours into his skin
fuels his pulse
sets aflame his muscle
a messenger to his spirit
and he wakes
he asks me what is wrong, drowsily, hand where
perhaps he had felt his heart removed and replaced,
chin at my collarbones.
my eyes ripple and convulsing, choking on affection,
my arms fly about him, my whispers entreat his ears,
my gifts for him
the effects he has on me are tidal waves impossible to plot
though known is it to me that he has a calendar of them
within his chest
so, "nothing" comes my answer, care consuming volume
"okay" says he back, then settles down to once more
fall asleep upon my *******
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 9:20 AM UTC