"sensitively" poems - Hello Poetry

Women are born with heavy feathered wings Hands that hide starlit craters Celestially they spin in infinity and find each other Stroking the softness, in awe at the wonder of the unashamed mystique That perpetuates newly hatched faces A world without the incessant need for reassurance Which towers intimidatingly over the forest border Small ordinances that keep themselves airless No longer striving for the greater force of flight Clipping away their feathers with garden shears, hosing down the blood Tuscan architecture abandoned countless ages ago Ancient in idea and aesthetic I’ve wandered many miles to reach such exotic visions that have been dead for so long The heads of kings lined up on the edge of a waterfall Their bodies still holding onto the swords they clipped their wings with long ago A little further, a river emerges and spills cold water from the azimuth of God There was a communicator present at the time of cleansing, unbeknownst to me To accept ones sins is to be cleansed of them, don’t you agree? He asked this with shaking shoulders, his robes unraveling to reveal the scars on his chest One for each pectoralis I looked away in tragedy I enter the wooden gate, into the Macedonian fortresses of old My torso has been replaced with a harp, which I feel these princes pluck so sensitively I hear the timber echo throughout my chest and vibrate in my throat My back has merged without consent to a beast that bends backwards The harp strings have been torn I am now mute Raising the weary head of the sleeping dog and the sleeping disdain I slept in an isolated piece of land untouched by human hands And sank into the forest floor In which the grass and all living creatures decided I had left the physical form My eternal resting place

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Jul 24, 2018

Jul 24, 2018 at 5:54 PM UTC

whatdeo

Charcoal Feathers

Women are born with heavy feathered wings Hands that hide starlit craters Celestially they spin in infinity and find each other Stroking the softness, in awe at the wonder of the unashamed mystique That perpetuates newly hatched faces A world without the incessant need for reassurance Which towers intimidatingly over the forest border Small ordinances that keep themselves airless No longer striving for the greater force of flight Clipping away their feathers with garden shears, hosing down the blood Tuscan architecture abandoned countless ages ago Ancient in idea and aesthetic I’ve wandered many miles to reach such exotic visions that have been dead for so long The heads of kings lined up on the edge of a waterfall Their bodies still holding onto the swords they clipped their wings with long ago A little further, a river emerges and spills cold water from the azimuth of God There was a communicator present at the time of cleansing, unbeknownst to me To accept ones sins is to be cleansed of them, don’t you agree? He asked this with shaking shoulders, his robes unraveling to reveal the scars on his chest One for each pectoralis I looked away in tragedy I enter the wooden gate, into the Macedonian fortresses of old My torso has been replaced with a harp, which I feel these princes pluck so sensitively I hear the timber echo throughout my chest and vibrate in my throat My back has merged without consent to a beast that bends backwards The harp strings have been torn I am now mute Raising the weary head of the sleeping dog and the sleeping disdain I slept in an isolated piece of land untouched by human hands And sank into the forest floor In which the grass and all living creatures decided I had left the physical form My eternal resting place