"historics" poems
After the long meaningless hysterics
And lengthy broodings on the historics
What once fought for its life now yields with less bitterness
What once thought it was on its own, now asks for help
So, on the river bank she sits, eyes closed
Shaking terribly, for love, for thorns
Indeed, a hundred thousand thorns she carries
Thank God, indeed, for the Comforter's Song
*Whatever trembles in fear
Surrender them to me
The holy bath of the eternal is fire
And out of my gentle fire is your light freed*
*Your vision as yet is faint and weak
So hold my hand, and ask me for the way
I can never tire of you, and I can never tire of your asking*
*Your feet are weary from your long pointless travels
So let me carry you, and together we'll extend miracles
And leap through space and time*
*Your heart is in pain from the thorns you keep
Let me take your precious thorns
So you may see light dancing all around you
As I do*
*Whatever trembles in fear
Leave not one unsurrendered
You need them not
And love you truly need.*
**Never will I leave you;
Never will I forsake you.**
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 11:04 PM UTC
Fresher than the sky after a rainy day, us was found strongly subdued in intrigue and properly shawled in ****
Higher than hippies can ever attain yet the ocean envies our deepness, back breaking as if our love were a tile floor that doubled as a bed at night, yet we are still comfortable. Still striving for the placement next to the historics and enjoying the wait, the ascent toward remembrance and the ascent from stupidity as we learn each other like Spanish class.
Let me know you, let me feel your energy. Why? Well, why not? I'm an alienated settler, so I suppose I need closeness? Or better yet,
I need you.
Why are you looking around? Move the stranger in front of you so that you can see my finger pointing at you. Yes, you, I need you. I'm interested, curvy swaying hips that deserve my caress, **** luscious lips that deserve my attention, she's a love-starved apparition that's deserving of the meal that I feel I can provide.
We are instruments, feel the beat of my drum, ba-da-da-dum-di-dum-di-dum, the sound my heart makes when you talk to me. The sound I hear when I know I'm ****** to make a fool or myself in front of you. My love, we are satire beings, embodying principles that we formed in a sheepish state when our fantasies were formed and our dreamy hopes became lost wishes.
I thought I knew love, but I didn’t know you, so what I knew was the fact that truth and lie could be twins at times. Right and wrong could be cousins.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC