"exacted" poems
there's ethical idealism:
where ethics is discussed...
there's ethical relativism:
where ethics is practised...
there's ethical realism...
where ethics is quantified
as an improbability;
and then there's ethical
absolutism,
where we supposedly
"progress" -
in this scenario are
the laws of physics actually
suspended:
whereby oculus qua oculus
is replaced -
a loss of an eye is "relative"
to 10 years in a cage...
really?!
ethics is
ideal, realistic, absolute or relative...
we're encouraged to live
in "realistic relativism"...
never in an absolute realism,
since realistic relativism
only compares itself
to ideal absolutism...
and nothing more...
ever watched that film
secrets in their eyes?
you ever wonder what
ethical idealism is to the ethnical
consequence that can absorb
a realistic libra?
i can only believe in
ethical absolutism,
ethical relativism is horrid to me...
relativism adorns idealism,
absolutism adorns realism...
a life sentence is worse than
a death sentence,
whether justified or not,
prison is sadism,
but at least ****** is simply ******
a space-time intact,
a ****** penalty is not
inhumane, nor a ouija board...
it's time for time,
space for space,
the actual punishment comes
with the missing adrenaline rush
of the unexpected reception of the wielded
weapon...
either send these jealous plonkers to
siberia, or sentence them to death,
for you are no more than they are,
nay, you are more...
you're akin to cats toying,
playing a sadistic games with half-mutilated
mice...
this is why i abhor
ethical relativism of the crucifix...
hence my belief in ethical
absolutism in the paragraph of realism,
which is perfected, by
being exacted, and never, ever,
being leisurely discussed,
on a farcical palette with a grimace
to boot: ******* a lemon;
compensating the horrors within
minutes, is never compensated
with ordeals that last years...
which is why i find the death penalty
an act of authentic humanity,
and not this quasi-humanitarian
act of pardon, ******* hypocrites -
i abhor the caged rat
more than the rat gladly nibbling
on a dead corpse...
at least there was passion
in the ******
waiting for death penalty is like killing
a vermin with poison,
disposing them with nonchalantly...
the wise maxim states:
ledo ferrum sicut id est calidi -
strike the iron while it's hot...
death is the dawn-broker -
a new tomorrow promise -
left intact, the fermenting process
of ethical dynamism takes over...
then again,
the supposedly "evolved"
preferred moral relativism to moral
absolutism,
because there was no
moral realism to speak of,
since morality could only
be talked about in ideal terms of
the supposedly so, supposedly
fashioned via: it ought to never happen to
me...
and then it might, and then:
oops... argument sinks like a wet fatty ****
into shambles of keeping up with
the presupposed pillar of argument
being "impenetrable";
hey, genius, back to the blackboard!
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 8:50 PM UTC
Run, Gemini child
And run fast
For tragedy is hounding
You in the guise
Of glory
And billing you
For excesses uncontrolled
The end is drawing near….
Though you have no fear,
Must you also have no shame?
Hide, Gemini child
And hide yourself well
Hold still, unmoving
Drop out of sight
And out of mind
For the consequences
Have exacted from you
A high price to pay
A form of revenge
Festering in your unkempt spirit
How could you live
As you have allowed yourself
To lead?
Destroy not your soul
For materials that put their
Patents on you…
Must you go so low?
Can you never go slow?
Downwards is a long
And empty route
It was not the road
That the heavens had
Destined you to take
Though it be the one
You will never, ever forsake…
Be kind dear Gemini child
And go down alone
If you think that you must
Your looks might be lasting
But your heart remains wanting
Let other people move on
And share not
This unnecessary pain
Let time be the judge
Nor excuses be made
For your living the fullest
Through irreverent ways….
Curse of the seasons
Child of the star
Rest but your head
On a pillow of stone
Walls that constrict
From maggots insist
Anaesthetize all emotions
That plagued you in life…
Meet me at Forest Lawn
Where to you I will sing
To wipe all your tears
And sunflowers bring
Moodust on my pocket
And one for the road
Dear Gemini child
Running from cold
Kiss to the fate
All the prophets fortold
Dear Gemini child
So beautiful and so bold
Mine is a love
That time can not fold
Depicted in stories
That shall never be told…
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 6:47 AM UTC
This is a terrible romantic
and sadomasochistic narrative.
The artist's mind is clothed in fabrics.
Fashion is his vocabulary.
Grim-tales are often told with foreboding,
exacted further through sharp, perceiving lenses.
Collections of sharp silhouettes speak of
a masterful and sensitive touch.
A turbulence of emotions exploded in
delicate and mesmerising theatricals.
Taking delight in challenging popular notions,
Alexander left audience continually in a
lingering aftertaste of shock mixed with wonder.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 11:41 AM UTC
Run, Gemini child
And run fast
For tragedy is hounding
You in the guise
Of glory
And billing you
For excesses uncontrolled
The end is drawing near….
Though you have no fear,
Must you also have no shame?
Hide, Gemini child
And hide yourself well
Hold still, unmoving
Drop out of sight
And out of mind
For the consequences
Have exacted from you
A high price to pay
A form of revenge
Festering in your unkempt spirit
How could you live
As you have allowed yourself
To lead?
Destroy not your soul
For materials that put their
Patents on you…
Must you go so low?
Can you never go slow?
Downwards is a long
And empty route
It was not the road
That the heavens had
Destined you to take
Though it be the one
You will never, ever forsake…
Be kind dear Gemini child
And go down alone
If you think that you must
Your looks might be lasting
But your heart remains wanting
Let other people move on
And share not
This unnecessary pain
Let time be the judge
Nor excuses be made
For your living the fullest
Through irreverent ways….
Curse of the seasons
Child of the star
Rest but your head
On a pillow of stone
Walls that constrict
From maggots insist
Anaesthetize all emotions
That plagued you in life…
Meet me at Forest Lawn
Where to you I will sing
To wipe all your tears
And sunflowers bring
Moodust on my pocket
And one for the road
Dear Gemini child
Running from cold
Kiss to the fate
All the prophets fortold
Dear Gemini child
So beautiful and so bold
Mine is a love
That time can not fold
Depicted in stories
That shall never be told…
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 6:27 AM UTC
Where I grew up
We didn't celebrate celebrity
And weren't slaves
to the cattle-drivers of the masses
Where I grew up,
We were just young
And free
We toiled on train-tracks
Inventing troubles requiring
A daring escape.
With our stick-strapped-satchels
We foolishly mocked the local bums
Jealous of their freedom.
Ignorant of their pain.
Imitation is the hallmark of love
And yes, we loved the bums
And we were thorough through it
Where I grew up
The incandescence of the late afternoon
And early morning suns
Drew in a vibrant orange
Cast as paint on pale walls
The apartment... and eventually... the house
Shone brighter for it;
Though it seemed to struggle less in a house
That was considerably more empty
Especially around the holidays.
Where I grew up
We were taught racial and radical equality
Exacted with extreme prejudice
At every pep rally and presumably PTA meeting.
And while neighboring towns held race riots
We were racing our bikes, well...
I do miss my rollerblades
Where I grew up
Every girl was pretty as a movie star
And chased the bad boys
Like in every story I'd ever heard
And those boys won by popularity and power of presence
Girls they never deserved
Where I grew up
In winter we built massive palaces
From the winter's teardrops that huddled together
For warmth after the plow
Where I grew up...
I grew up too soon.
A little more than a little at a time
And it became clear
I had to move.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 5:59 PM UTC
They had nothing to give
To their motherland
Except their mortal lives
So they gave it cheerfully
Without a second thought
To see her wrinkled smile
These road on which we stand today
Were built upon layers of stone
And skulls of warriors great
This freedom wasn’t free
Of cost. Their debt we must pay.
Each and every day.
Two brothers fought
None won
Both lost
Freedom exacted a dear cost
As the clock struck twelve
On that August day
From heaven the martyrs cried
Their dream
Their struggle
For which they died
Was finally realized
The dawn was breaking
It was history in making
The charkha of time had turned
After so many years
A nation was waking
Up
Jan 27, 2021
Jan 27, 2021 at 12:04 PM UTC
Two brothers fought
None won
Both lost
Freedom exacted a dear cost
Aug 13, 2021
Aug 13, 2021 at 3:10 PM UTC
Learning the mystery
May be a feat
Reminiscent of pulling teeth
It can be time consuming
But never in vain
Because if you can ever be trusted
To understand without judgement
The reward can be so sweet
usually more than the average can handle
From passion, compassion and loyalty
We are indeed valuable companions
Definitely worth the effort and patience
Because we don't offer information
And even when you ask
Initially trying to get to know us
Our answer will accomplish
Only half the task
Because growing up we learned what not to say
Definitely the hard way
Exposing our interior and
Shedding our hard exoskeleton
Is a thought beyond terrifying
And a task that is quite daunting
Revealing a membrane underneath
As intrinsic and complex
As it is delicate and fragile
Attempts to damage or injure
Can prove beyond fatal
For the venom used against you
Is comprised of fermented resentment
From the cumulative pain you've inflicted
used with lethal precision on
Your insecurities, pain, and pride
drawn from Information that you provide
The easiest way to avoid heinous defeat
Is via honesty, loyalty and
Through the words and promises you keep
Most chose not to heed a warning so distinct
And are horrified
When the revenge exacted is so succinct
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 4:15 PM UTC
Inches feat – what depth?
I made money on it
Matters not material girl
I’m in deep
Cannot not love you
Careful what you prey for
Adam’s Cain made man
We’re in deep
Three penny entrance sentence
Let off on bad behavior
Twisted in your sheet
Ghost of a chance we’ll make it
Together again after all these years
Just like knowing each other forever
Now here in name and deed
Contractually invested in mutual success
What worth we must assess via Libra
Becomes Justice on an equilibrium exacted
In league with intensity
To create the best drama
Encountering comedy
You go your way I go mine
Happy ending encapsulated in cartoon
Cereal ads engaging us in inculcation
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:31 PM UTC
I sat restfully on a green park bench next to a gray-haired stranger. He was a tall black man
in his 70's I supposed. He read my predictable
thought and said 76 to be exacted! We went on
to talk for an hour or more, but to me, it felt more
like an unforgettable lifetime.
We share so much of our personal life with one
another and for whatever reason, I am not sure,
but I considered him a friend and not foe.
We were comfortable until he asked me the taboo question. why would anyone
want to **** themselves?
I give him the best answer that anyone can, but with another question of course. I asked him why
not, aren't we are all just primary casualties.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
Six thousand miles of difference
Determined by mans’ hand,
Of greed and power sought by him
Against his fellow man.
Six thousand miles of difference
Exacted by a thought,
That life should be a harmony
Or life should be as nought.
A still and utter peacefulness
Pervading in the air
Normalities great splendour here,
In order everywhere.
A dog barks in the evening light
As neighbours mow the lawn
And the distant hum of traffic
From yon motorway, forlorn.
Shattered buildings teeter
To the concrete debris strewn,
Through war torn streets of battle
Where hot shrapnel sears the noon.
Where blood pools in the broken glass
And fear is in the air,
And the shriek of rockets plummeting
Cause a heartbeat to despair.
Leafy streets of sanctity
Where people mix at will,
Chimney smoke which spirals
In atmosphere tranquil.
Couples saunter, arm in arm
Children laugh and play
The normal, here, is everywhere
Upon this peaceful day.
Decapitated corpses wash
In blood, red surge of sea,
An encounter in the wrong place
Means a sudden death for me.
The skies are filled with torment,
The people quake with fear
As they cringe and flee, directionless,
To frantically keep clear.
Six thousand miles of distance
Determines where we stand,
In battles hell and maelstrom
Or walk free in this fair land?
In Syria’s catastrophe
Where men do **** at will,
Or walk in serene safety
On this lands’ grassy hill
Six thousand miles of difference
Determined by your hand
With greed and power sought by man
Against his Makers’ plan.
Six thousand miles of difference
Exacted by a thought…
-That life shall be a harmony
Or life shall be a nought.
Marshalg
Ascot Hospital
Auckland
19 November 2012
© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 5:20 PM UTC
d'harga'h! urn! and sung clemency with the sign of the cross - Mr. Longinus - a baptism awaits...
in the Turkish shop buying my beers -
politics talk, gone Razza - Tahir -
talk of politics - deciphered a word:
Erdoğan (Erdoghan, Edrogrzan,
what was it - macabre radish to taste -
niechmaj sto Vlad'a reka na tle kiwnieniem raz!
i krok poza 'sztem! bogiem byka wybryk
szto?! - the crowds descended, and the kestrels
and the pigeons, and the swans,
and the migratory storks, and the seagulls -
for the Winged-Hussar Polonaise.
fluff of the wings -
the Mongol stench
reinterpreted - i rather be picking
ethnic mushrooms - kropki polka -
and koniewki - łopieniek & canary -
grünling in German, gąska zielonka - Pan Kleks -
or Chanterelle Mushroom - pepper shakerz -
kurki, tzn. te słynne grzyby.
the deviating kurka - or chickpea foetal
variant of fungus - or alias chick.
each time they pithy my assertion to claim the
ethnic brothel of Europe that Poland is for
the noble families - each time they undermine
the worker testifying the fuck-worthy ****
prior sleep - pride settles in -
and a long forgotten assertive builds up
to architectural proportions -
it just ends up being a game of throwing
copper coins into Scotland, potatoes into Ireland...
and dinosaur bones into Wales...
and post-colonial subjects into England, lazily
packed with the labels **** and Hindu;
Karzimierz Dębski could have said: it was never
supposed to come to this; shame that it did;
the safety option was exacted.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 10:59 PM UTC
On my First Son
By Ben Jonson
Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;
My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy.
Seven years tho' wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
O, could I lose all father now! For why
Will man lament the state he should envy?
To have so soon 'scap'd world's and flesh's rage,
And if no other misery, yet age?
Rest in soft peace, and, ask'd, say, "Here doth lie
Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry."
For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such,
As what he loves may never like too much.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 4:17 PM UTC
Alien, welcome art thou not
Depart anon, hence.
Move along now, clear thrown
Thy like's not recognised!
**** saps, with heavy mortal curtain
And suffer their dismal, moral drapery
If only universal context was embraced
So much would harvested rewards be to fit.
But this roundabout lack of courtesy
Somersault delusions fall too cruel
Heavy price exacted; red and spitting moon
So telling on bedraggled souls.
Thy disheveled mind has trod so wrong
Thy mien shod in disrepair; sadly unsaddled
Gorged thus, on fawning ego-laden charges
Thy glutted, overgrown web may implode.
High-handed claims to own such elements
Whose power canst be wield by none!
These petty trips inside the mind
Merely trifling paper boxes rattling on....
Whip away the welcome mat
And shut the door abrupt
Close the windows of the keen spirit
Deaf and blind to soft rain upon the earth....
Cradlesong swopped for craichy flags
Go then, hoist high thy boastful banner
Whilst, all the while, the world will watch
See thee teeter, totter in disgrace.
Yes, the alien has felt the hand of slights
Do spectres then, have not emotions, too?
See the fruits of thy blighted labour:
And this soul now softly tiptoes out....
Star Toucher, 20 February 2013
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 2:35 AM UTC
~~~
every word I write is a tribute
*now listen here,
let's clarify the inescapable,
what this tribute thing means,
cause what I'm doing here,
ain't exactly clear
everything we write,
is only a watery-encapsulated
reflection of our lives,
which of necessity,
will always be messy
what the heck does
this guy mean.
when enlisting
this shady word,
tribute?
at 3:10 in the AM,
tribute is dressed in its
more defy-nition sinister,
a bad news speaking cultural minister,
who never fails us
by reminding,
tribute originated
as the nasty kind:
"any exacted or enforced payment or contribution"
every **** word
that I've written
is a **** tribute,
an exacted, enforced, wrung from,
payment
of a pound of flesh,
Shylock's variety pack kind
I'm not bitter,
a touch angry, perhaps,
even brave, ok, unafraid,
to admit, overall,
got it pretty ok
but that I still struggle
to get that satisfaction,
in everything minute and daily,
the tiny and the tremendous,
the cost production load only goes
unicycle upward sloping,
this crisis crazy we call being
alive,
and to you,
who keys and ken
my meaning well*
herein is my good kind side
my paying
tribute
to you, your courage,
even me, periodically,
for awakening and walking
into the unknown outside,
and giving it up
in our travelogue of
shared poetry
5:48am
Jan. 21, 2016
NYC (aboard the stationary bike,
paying tribute for forty years of sinning)
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 4:30 PM UTC
why do you love me better after you've made me cry
i become supplicant and your love swells
you become sweet again
tender
loving concern pours forth as i lie
spent
on the floor
exhausted
is it exacted punishment on all women?
she who sent you to that place of inhumanity?
that destroyer of boys
men
and ultimately
women
will that ever change
Apr 20, 2012
Apr 20, 2012 at 5:01 PM UTC
Born into a planet that does not want me here
But here and now, let me make it clear
That one day I will give you something to fear
You doubt me, taunt me, and walk all over me
Ill haunt you forever, I will become your banshee
you think I am the bane of the earth
Ill have my day to show you what I'm worth
Ill have my chance to rise up above you
I shall run you through
You shall fall askew
And your power I will accrue
I have had enough
I am no longer a maniac distracted
Soon my revenge will be exacted
And as you look up at me from down low
From this earth you will be subtracted
Mar 7, 2010
Mar 7, 2010 at 9:42 PM UTC
i gave my pound of shylock... see, objectivism would like me to be accurate claiming it was not a pound’s worth, exacted to the precise .1 gram of weight... but that just breeds confusion, and where’s the joy in that?
you were already chosen as the vessel of apathy
and gauged out eyes,
heartless economics built around insects,
and there you were being told:
make not your vessel a poured in content of a *****
but a russian girl of worth,
because, let’s face it, these girls experience daily
abuse that cannot be given a historical relevance
for all of humanity... choose a ********** to enter the empty
vessel of your content worth from apathy
and you’ll have to allow a crucifix of you worth too -
choose a nobler kind of girl to give your missing beating ***** to,
so she might quench something apparent in you...
but then she does opposite and you’re left as the *****
with sweet mammon whispering into your ear
about all the glories of the staged life to receive
bounties of rubber, plastic and dust of the entertainer’s stage...
then imagine being psychoanalysed on every page turn
just so that someone can have a job without having met you...
all the local prostitutes decided to denote me as the devil...
i just started wearing sunglasses when looking out the window at night.
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 8:00 PM UTC
1.
I am optimistic enough this day clings to the highest mast,
is now born out of prophecy.
I pass by the old mirror: see myself: blear myself:
is blot to canvas, slit from the wrist of this home:
I witness how it is to sustain beatings.
2.
In the empty lot, age 9, we wrung frangipanis and ruined
the pedicle somehow a map of a history where this ground
shook that was once an old cathedral. We blew
bubbles out in the haziest of days, pallid and droopy
the clouds identify in their short collisions – the stream that was
the sky
the face of my mother when found news of my would-be death
1996, Kawasaki my mother's clutch on the soiled linen
beginning an autopsy
3.
I conjure a frayed upon image of death in its colloquial.
a fractal of mistakes taken as righting out. I sense prognostication
when potential for a satisfied framed encounter or out of luck that was
a night making all of this less than total.
I remember the discoloration of the many lights – the sky beginning an
erratum: this could have been your last – what is exacted here
like a tarot, the culprit a newfangled man in the rearview mirror.
4.
How can I forget you – all of you? You wear light like karsunsilyo.
You are all flowers I arrive at a contusion of gardens.
Rinse me with light – abandon me after.
5.
Made air staler. Dew my maiden when lit
from the matutinal – in tow, a bedraggled kite soaring in the heat
one distinct summer,
wish it pure that was I, almost touching the vermillion,
my faintest image of freedom was a bird trapped in between
the venetian.
6.
In a dream, I am pursued by a train in an alley – in the next scene,
I am being forced to take a plunge
into a chasm: the fall did not scare me – but my acquiescence
made me flinch: standing before space, anesthetizing
the skin so it made me more than metal, the clangor
suggests a tragedy. Awakened by violent nudges
from my mother: it was the New Year. Pyrotechnics paint the sky
over and over an ephemera in the bleak behemoth of this:
a makeshift home ruined by untranslatable music
the sound of rain at 11 in the afternoon and a nearby funeral.
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 1:14 AM UTC
Nothing you said makes me happier
Not “I love you”
Not “I miss you”
Not the sweet words,
The secret language
You used with only
The girls filled with hate
Now I think, to this day
That nothing you say
Could ever make me happier
Nothing you said makes me happier
Not “Come over”
Not “Come closer”
Not the proofread lines,
Carefully exacted
For the time you just left
Me to wander, distracted
Alone in a crowd
We no longer interacted
That didn't make me happier
Nothing you said makes me happier
Not “We need a break”
Not “I'm moving away”
The looks that you gave
Or the way you berate,
Not even a whisper
Of lie and debate
Will make me happier
Than when you told me
“I'll be dead by forty.”
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC
why do you love me better after
you've made me cry
i become supplicant
and your love swells
you become
sweet again
tender loving concern pours forth
i lie spent
on the floor
exhausted
is it exacted punishment?
on all women?
on she who sent you to that place of inhumanity?
that destroyer of boys, men and
ultimately women
will it ever change
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 6:30 PM UTC
Yesterday I visited Cherrapunjee.
Visited the scenes of my boyhood escapades
Looked for the crooks of the trees
Where we perched on exam Sundays
Hidden from the sun, the warden
Plucking berries with the squirrels and birds
Reciting poetry and chasing apparitions.
But they are gone, all gone.
The beautiful huts are still there
With a coat of coal and limestone dust
But not the beautiful trees without.
I traced the trail of the river
Where as truant boys we frolicked
With some fear of the master's cane
And loved the half cooked picnic.
Tried to find the mountain pool that once
Swallowed a friend and almost me!
But, there's only a faint string
Among the ragged cheek bones, and where
The eye was, just a dry hollow.
A pound of flesh and more exacted!
The mighty falls are gone and
In their stead the quarries resound
Rat holes and palaces jostle for space.
From afar I hear old Kong Yulin
Cry "How green was my valley!"
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 10:24 AM UTC
I believe her when she tells me
How you've become a monster
She has no reason to lie...
She says you are filled with hate
But I know the truth is more complicated
You just bounced from one wall to another
We both drank from the same fountain
She says I wouldn't recognize you
I'm sure she's right
Even more sure
She wouldn't recognize me
We are both paying
She says she doesn't really get along with you
What could you have done, I wonder
To push her away, it's sad, because I know
In pushing her you exacted revenge against me
She tells me a lot of things
They hurt, they anger, they pour salt in the wound
And I would listen to her all day long
Because I long to fill in the gaps
The years absent of you
I want to know that I hurt you almost as much as you hurt me
Oct 2, 2011
Oct 2, 2011 at 8:34 PM UTC
Though I have never felt my own legs quake
Though I stand firmly behind what decisions I make
Though regret is little more than a vital part of life to me
I consider my actions now; I am wracked with uncertainty.
The things I have choosen to do in life sit with me to vigil
I am far too weak as I currentlyam , my defences are fully riddled
With vulnerabilities I have exacted upon myself, I now review
The life I saw fit to live and the parts of it I now wish to undo.
Birth. I waver. That it may have never happened, that I didn't exist
The childhood I didn't savour. Despite the dreams it saw fit to twist
Pre-adulthood. I falter. I thought so much of what I thought I knew
My feeble hold on maturity. My newfound perplexion at what to do.
I am no longer the child with the world at fingertip and magic in my palm
I am little more than an adult with failing health and a shaky facade of calm
I am no longer stable, unchanging, and tough like the rock I was thought to be
I am wavering, quivering, shaking in terror; I am the manifestation of fragility.
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 10:27 AM UTC
We left our hearts underneath the red leaf tree that looks like fire when the sun sets.
She grabbed my face. Her lips burned. Her mouth was as hot as ever a mouth was. Her tongue punched my teeth and the whites of her eyes poked through her closed lids.
I pulled back with the wind.
A red leaf ruffled the silence between us.
This is it? she said.
There was no answer.
There is no answer.
There will never be an answer.
She said she wanted to swim, so we swam. Our naked bodies glistened with the water, and we made love under the winking stars.
As she nestled under my arm,
as she hissed with each exhale as she slept,
I knew we would never see each other again.
We woke up as strangers and left behind our memories too strong for the weak. Maybe I’ll find her there when I visit. We’ll laugh and act like who we were when love was exacted that day in Autumn. But we’ll never be those two lovers again.
Not much has changed here. The leaves are still red, and the water still glistens. The spot where we slept is packed with dirt
A grave.
Not much has changed, but we have changed. I know she won’t come, but something burns inside of me. So here I will wait, for death, for love, for what may come. We left our hearts underneath the red leaf tree that looks like fire when the sun sets,
where I’ll sit until fate decides otherwise.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 9:25 PM UTC