"orsino" poems
I always thought I'd fall in love with a poet
A man who loved me almost as much as he loved words
Who composed verses in his head
While ******* my ear with his tongue
Instead, I fell in love with a fisherman with
crackerjack hands and icy morals
An Othello, not an Orsino
He loves me more than he loves love
Because we don't always fall in love with ourselves
Thank God.
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 6:49 AM UTC
The most momentous utterance that has ever summoned forth an alteration escaped from his lips.
The room forgot its dimness as if the attribute had never previously existed.
Each syllable bombarded their surroundings in waves of brilliant neon.
Each percussionary word collaborated with the next to create a rhythm remembered by only two.
This unforeseen ballad to avoid embarking on Sisyphus' task.
This single verse sang by the jester to relieve Orsino's passions.
A battle song of beating drums being pounded by a racing heart.
A lullaby in remembrance of the warm pillow where her head once rested in soft slumber.
A requiem for the dying desires breaking through their cages behind her eyes.
The most momentous bravery that has ever required assistance was gasped into her lungs.
A dimness crossed her face following the shadow of her hand.
The room erased the color from each syllable that he had previously uttered.
Each syllable became a tiny vacuum attempting to pull the air from within her.
Each chiming tear collaborated with the next to create a rhythm remembered by only one.
This unforeseen ballad was a spell to repel erotes.
This single verse sang by Phaeton to Zeus in his last breath.
A battle song of once intact dreams being beaten by a false heart.
A lullaby in remembrance of the warm heart that put her mind at rest.
A requiem for the dying innocence uncaged for all to see.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 4:09 AM UTC
I had always thought that Love
Would open the floodgates,
Would make of me
A giant vial,
Tipping me over and causing me
To spill out the sweetest poison.
Love came, in his crafty, shy way,
And as he announced himself,
I prepared, filing through my thoughts,
My bank of literary currency,
Searching for the most succulent of metaphors,
The most shining of similes,
And twenty-six alliterations for
Twenty-six letters.
I sat at my island,
Pen in hand,
Pensive smile on my lips.
My heart was full of music,
And I said, like Orsino,
"If music be the food of love,
Well,
Give me more!"
I sat,
And waited.
I waited,
And nothing came.
No sounds to move my heart to dance,
No symbols to make my eyes twinkle,
No product, no design,
Nothing at all to say.
It is not that Love has made my head blank.
Rather, it is that Love has made
Me mute.
Love waltzed in,
More elegant than I ever will be,
And, approaching from behind,
Placed his solid and ice cold hand
Over my poor, unmoving mouth,
Paralyzed with a smile.
Love spun me around to face him,
Taking my arms forcefully, and said,
"Dance with me."
My mouth remained paralyzed, but
Oh, how my feet flew!
How they skated across the floor
So recently turned to ice
At the courteous request of Love.
How he spun me like a spindle,
How he pricked my finger upon its
Needle. How he smiled and smiled,
And how I took in nothing but his eyes.
They were not an icy blue as one might imagine.
Instead, they contained a shallow blackness,
Darkness divine.
Where mortals have mere specks of color
In their eyes, flecks like those on marbles,
Love has the stars.
Love has the universe in his eyes,
And the universe has mirrors,
And the mirrors have eyes
That grasp yours,
And soon you know not
What you are witnessing.
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 11:24 PM UTC