Life seems to be consistent with the tresses cascading down from my head
Spiraling out of control with its increasing length
Rather try to tame it to see it's real strength
It may give you the illusion that you have control
But in reality it cannot be tamed
Say what you will but contrary to popular belief
I'm not as complicated as my curls
There be some juice. Light, we cannot drink.
Dark our days that trudge on, laden caravan.
There be some song, to the tune of the winds.
Parched, the baked earth thirsting for a caress
wet from the silken lashes of the sky maiden.
Let's talk to her tonight,
the last lotus is in still-bloom
in the folds of her tresses
as she goes about plucking
stars for her worship-basket.
Soon the earth is covered
in the misty offerings to Deities
at the far end of spacetime.
Juice some there be. Drink, we cannot light.
Caravan laden on trudge that days our dark.
The winds of the tune to song some there be.
A caress for thirsting earth the baked, parched
maiden the sky of lashes the silken from wet.
Let there be light, let there be.
Darkness, we have enough.
I am the tenderness in your eyes
When I hold your hands in mine.
I am the shiver down my spine
When your soft lips touch my skin.
I am the blush that colours your cheeks
When you smile at me in your special way.
I am the air of mysterious charm you carry
When you play with your enticing, enchanting tresses.
I am the hesitation in your voice
When you voice your deepest desires.
And I am your impulsive smile
When our eyes meet when its least expected.
I am all you are, I am all you feel
And yet, I'm nothing without you.
with a soft flair sweet,
sublime in dress,
that chains my heart around.
feet that gracious are abounded
tressed, liked begs from cries
a blissful wishful sigh,
in mind's eye.
'tis unfair to leave me
from your magnificence,
or i will seek.
This Band, which bound thy yellow hair
Is mine, sweet girl! thy pledge of love;
It claims my warmest, dearest care,
Like relics left of saints above.
Oh! I will wear it next my heart;
’Twill bind my soul in bonds to thee:
From me again ’twill ne’er depart,
But mingle in the grave with me.
The dew I gather from thy lip
Is not so dear to me as this;
That I but for a moment sip,
And banquet on a transient bliss:
This will recall each youthful scene,
E’en when our lives are on the wane;
The leaves of Love will still be green
When Memory bids them bud again.
When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them.
Your waist and your breasts,
the doubled purple
of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses,
my little tower.
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.
Shake out your shining tresses, Love
Undress their dark contour as the pink stars rise
And drowse around the smoke-ringed moon,
Like roses in a whiskey glass.
Take time to dream a dream, my Love,
Tresses fallen across the curve of your face --
Sleep away the late summer moon,
Spooning the stars asleep in pink lace.
Lay down your weary bones, my dear,
Stretch out on vanilla feather-winged dreams
My whisky rose petal kisses blown into the night
Finding you on glittered opalescent moonbeams
Grab hold of pink-starred sweet slumber
As silken tendrils puddle upon your chest
Tangled up in each other's lithe limbs
Our blissful hearts beat together in tender rest
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I wish that our tongues would finally match
when we spoke from our flesh,
that you would brush my shoulder
like you do when
you aren't a machine,
and when we'd look at each other,
that our eyes
would actually meet.
but you can't get under
keeping it simple,
and I still end up over-
Through the rain stained glass,
With a sickly purple hue,
I can see early marsh orchid,
And it makes me think of you.
The gardener's son
Is looking at it too,
His sickly grey suit
Makes me think of you.
I was not born a bog child,
I was only passing through,
The Irish Lady's Tresses
Made me think of you.
Never, never again?
Not on nights filled with quivering stars,
or during dawn's maiden brightness
or afternoons of sacrifice?
Or at the edge of a pale path
that encircles the farmlands,
or upon the rim of a trembling fountain,
whitened by a shimmering moon?
Or beneath the forest's
luxuriant, raveled tresses
where, calling his name,
I was overtaken by the night?
Not in the grotto that returns
the echo of my cry?
Oh no. To see him again --
it would not matter where --
in heaven's deadwater
or inside the boiling vortex,
under serene moons or in bloodless fright!
To be with him...
every springtime and winter,
united in one anguished knot
around his bloody neck!