"waltzing" poems
"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"
311.4k
I am adept
In the art of being okay
I have mastered the craft
Of covering my troubles
I use all sorts of fancy facades
Acrylic, oil, watercolor
You name it.
I can paint over nearly anything
You will never know
How late I was up last night
Or why.
My eyes flicker
Like candlelight
But you couldn’t see
You couldn’t possibly see
I’m too good
For that.
I can dance, too
Waltzing away my sorrows
Carefully tip toe-ing the
Pas-de-I-am-fine
I get a standing ovation every time
I’m very talented, you see.
But my all time favorite
Is my disappearing act
I’m still perfecting it
Right now
But one of these days
I’ll show you
How I
Slip
Slip
Slip
Away
Right through your fingers.
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 4:37 PM UTC
Papers, Papers, Papers
Whiter than aching teeth,
Whiter than whites of tilted eyes,
Whiter than funeral wreaths.
My hands shake as I write this,
Filed away myths; Stolen lined sheets
My index finger chained by red tapes,
words mix and ground breaks,
I'm the one the world forsakes
Yellow maize, littered leaves,
all twisted into
black ink and clean sharp white paper blades.
-------"I am in a bit of daze," I tell myself, "look at those flaccid bits;
there lay the logs who use to be the jungle of my childhood dreams."
------"Don't be amazed," I replied, "these leafless branches and twigs are for
your Papier-Mâché degrees."
So I listen to my second self once,
the more logical cynical satirical one,
Treading on the plot of their paper works,
playing crosswords as anxiety uncork
my thoughts turn to the bankable orcs,
just as my career forks
Maybe I should be like my mother,
Marking numbers on a deck of cards-- waltzing with Chance.
Maybe I should be like my father,
Toiling for some rich men's grandson-- seething in Trance.
Maybe I should be like the Other,
Going along with the system-- thanking myself
beneath a cap, a diploma, a piece of paper.
I wore these books like bank notes tuxedoes,
I was promised the world by the credits I borrowed.
Must I go along with the mechanism of their game,
or should I rise up against all odds
Opposing, debating, rebelling against
this bundle, this trouble, funneling me into no-tomorrows
Or must I write it all down,
in my prayers against their lawyers, who need no reminds
Or must I shred, smear, and tear the papers with my own bare hands
But what will I ever be to them, friends?
A papercut, perhaps.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 9:33 PM UTC
Within the fields of grace
and moving waltzing wheat fields
moves the spotted feline with pace
black tears run down its face and yields
to the sun's tangerine gaze
The rythmic thomping of paws through grass
with undivided focus so clear
every step as fragile as glass
sounds perilous behind this feeble deer
Colossal strides that fly through air
pefected anatomy claws down its goal
rules of nature have never been fair
but one must know the key is survival
this deer now knows its fatal fate
is nature's gift to the cheetah's plate.
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 2:42 PM UTC
I watch the prom Dance,
In an awkward stance,
my friends walk in with dates,
and the excitement Abates.
Alone in a corner,
I mope like a mourner,
With no partner to dance with,
No gentleman to prance with.
Amidst the mirth and cheers,
My eyes fill up with tears.
I rush out into the open air,
And by Jove! I see Voltaire!
With his satirical charms,
He draws me in his arms.
As I sway to the beats,
I'm waltzing with Keats.
Causing my funny bone to arouse,
Enters P.G. Wodehouse!
Using nonchalant wittiness,
He acknowledges my prettiness.
And then walks in Shakespeare,
Who wipes away my tear,
And my senses curdle like curds,
As he showers me with words.
While I repress the excited child,
I'm swaying with Oscar Wilde.
I'm rendered helplessly mute,
With his phrases so astute.
With a proposal so verse-y,
I'm serenaded by Shelly B. Percy.
And before this fantasy can spoil,
I fox trot with Conan Doyle.
And thus literally seduced,
into putty I'm reduced.
I am platonic-ally smitten,
By the genius of what they've written.
The dating circus can’t make me cry,
because a host of paramours have I.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 3:20 AM UTC
They sing a song of melody
Some beautiful tune
That only Fairies sing at night
They ****** in the daytime
They quietly chime in the distance at night
Wind chimes ****** in the forest
Where the Fairies dance at night
In their beautiful Fairy Ring
Where all Fairies gather for the dance
Where we dance in a Ring
Wind chimes are our music
And they chime in the night breezes
A tune for us to waltz to
Even butterflies join the dance
And I am waltzing with the moon
Who smiles happily from his chair
In the dark, dark midnight sky
I love to hear the wind chimes
When they ****** in the Spring
And Summertime breezes
And in the wind of a thunderstorm
When they may chime vigorously
In the rain-scented winds
That send a twister of leaves
Flying through the air
Wind chimes soothe the mind
And tired body at night
And send sweet dreams
Into your head
~Marian~
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
We are watching the clouds
bandage an incarnadine sky,
we are practicing our best knots,
weaving an army of tourniquets,
we are slow-dancing
barefoot on the edge
of a razor.
We are watching
a demolition derby
in the driving rain,
the smell of motor oil
mixing with gasoline,
the hard melancholy
of dying machines.
We are waltzing from room to room,
smearing our names on the floor,
we are keeping time to slow music,
bleeding out behind closed doors.
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 8:15 AM UTC
Loneliness is like those ferns
Which grow in the forest alone
Loneliness is like those flowers
Which dance in the meadow
All by themselves
Loneliness is like a palm tree
Standing--growing on the shore alone
Looking out towards the ocean
Without any other palm trees
Loneliness is like a waterfall
Roaring mightily
All by himself
Loneliness is like a Fairy
Crying all alone
Sitting on a mushroom
All by herself
With no other Fairies
There to sprinkle Fairy dust and cheer
Loneliness is like a path
Without any people to walk upon it
Loneliness is like a butterfly
Flying alone
Sometimes we all tend to get lonely
But we must strive to see
The brighter things in life
Like a butterfly
Dancing with her mate
Like a bird cooing to his lover
Like a path with people to walk upon it
Like a waterfall gushing and flowing
Happily singing to the Creator
Like a Fairy
Dancing in a Fairy ring with all her friends
Like a palm tree growing
Surrounded by other palm trees
Like a flower waltzing with other flowers
~Marian~
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC
Oh there once was a swagman camped in the billabong,
Under the shade of a Coolabah tree;
And he sang as he looked at his old billy boiling
"Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me."
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag —
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
Down came a jumbuck to drink at the waterhole,
Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him in glee;
And he sang as he stowed him away in his tucker-bag,
"You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me."
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag —
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
Down came the squatter a-riding his thoroughbred;
Down came policemen — one, two, and three.
"Whose is the jumbuck you've got in the tucker-bag?
You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with we."
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag —
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
But the swagman, he up and he jumped in the waterhole,
Drowning himself by the Coolabah tree;
And his ghost may be heard as it sings in the billabong
"Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?"
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me
5.2k
Once there was a little boy
With dreams that touched the sky
He was the darling first born son
Apple of his mother's eye
He was polite and kind to all
Regardless of their age
But never took kindly to those
Who would put his mind into a cage
So while his mother loved him so
He only made his father frown
And over the years his heart was crushed
By the man who only put him down
Approval is a funny thing;
It changes someone's life
In bulk it makes receivers shine,
In absence kills the heart with strife
So the little boy just ran away
Find love in other ways
And ending up more broken
Limping through each God-forsaken day
He wasted quite a bit of time
Feeling sorry for himself
Until finally he grew up some
And put old feelings on the shelf
"It's time to relocate," he thought
"Time to make a name for me."
It was time to take control of his life
Decide his own destiny
Then some girl came waltzing in,
Botching his newfound plan,
Eyes a portal to a lovely soul
And blemishless heart outstretched in hand.
This couldn't happen, not again
He wouldn't change his mind
This boy had places to go and be
And love was just not worth the time
So he packed up all his things again
His "life" a sentimental might say
And with out even a goodbye
Ran like hell the other way.
Jan 19, 2012
Jan 19, 2012 at 10:10 PM UTC
In a dreamy woodland
There's a cottage just for me
And it's waiting there now
Beside a peaceful stream
Where quiet maples grow
And deer are not afraid
Where mushrooms grow in sweet silence
And sunlight glistens amongst the leaves
There's an enchanted cottage
Hidden in those shady woods
Where running cedar
And lady ferns intertwine
Where tears never fall
From any eye
That is where my secret abode
Is found in shadowy canopy
Of sun-dappled trees
Where dewdrops passionately kiss
The demure bluebells
Where breezes whisper
Through tall, swaying pines
And rustle ancient autumn leaves
From many seasons ago
Where time stands still
And woodland fairies dance
Where willow harps are played
Echoing in dreamy breezes
Through the trees and dancing through the air
Waltzing with the butterflies
Touching the lemon citrus sun
With fingers of gold
And spring days bygone
That's where you'll find me
Dreaming riparian
Scent of petrichor
Healing my soul
In summer woodland yonder
~Marian~
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 12:54 AM UTC
Waltzing through the chaos that life’s left for today,
Dragging along my battered horn in case she wants to play
‘Scuse me, Ms. Bartender, but I’ve got something to say
Ain’t nobody listening to the radio anyway
I don’t need a soapbox, no suit or microphone
Just a space to spread the truth wherever I may roam
I speak straight from the bottom of a bottle left at home
The night is not much easier when you take it on alone
Hear ye, hear ye, gather round to hear a tale
Of dreaming big, working hard, but destined still to fail
Shredding that loopy little melody,
The craziest cat you ever did see
Make you feel so alive, ladies screaming, “Wow boy!”
I jump and I jive, cuz I’m a bebop cowboy
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 10:41 PM UTC
Of serene eyes that follow gently
the illicit pill she could not let go
it was heavy as the waters pulling her inside
serenading her with an estranged voice
coming from within —
her minimizing the desire to let it out
as the sun quiets down
and the gibbous moon exhibiting itself at night,
resisting the waves occurring —
as if it loathed her whole being
of her justness and the absence of these causes
her grieving and the sirens waltzing,
talking through an absentminded eye
eyeing her soul
finding love that seizes it
but hers were two feet and one mouth to breathe in
even in all shades of blue,
she can get a glimpse of the dark hue
illuminating the downside of the ocean
pulling her, wrecking her soul.
Redemption does not lie —
humoring her with plainly just truth
craving for the applause of the moon
only observing the depth of the ocean
eating the once alive soul
of her saving her last breath,
chiming in with the conversation, she
once had with him.
It could have been nice the resistance
he once had — to throw himself out
to the beauty of his light that shed
her whole body
he once was able to have
and he stayed there, eyed her the whole time
being eaten on the lonesome of the night
for he himself, shading all the blueness
like a requiem for the dreams
she kept on having
like a composition giving life
to new generations, he was still on
a token and a curse, and he let her be —
in all shades of blue.
Jul 11, 2022
Jul 11, 2022 at 5:21 AM UTC
Ever heard your voice take a trip mid sentence
And start scrambling eggs,
Ending sentences with verbs,
Mixing Soy sauce with Bacardi
And chasing the laughter down your throat with onions
Cuckolding in the middle of the afternoon
Where violet doesn’t recognize blue
As a hue worthy enough to frolic with the afternoon dew,
And then your brain smiles to your ******
And you choke on a giggle
And wiggle an index finger just a little
And remember black widows
Were once angels who bought into self fulfilling prophecies
Like wearing Armani suits barefoot
And breathing through your skin
Hoping life doesn’t die in your arms
And leave a beautiful corpse
With great stories suffocating inside
And make the subpar ambitions of an unborn child jealous.
Now ever heard a genius cry?
‘cause then you’ve heard an artist cry.
Ever ate pork fried rice on a Sunday afternoon?
‘cause if you have you’ve heard the words of Leviticus cry.
Ever read these written words?
‘cause if you have you’ve heard memories die
And pains scream in alphabets of pleasure—
The universal language of immaculate deception
That sweeps through every tongue in involuntary pneumonia
Like waltzing to the Amen’s of the devil
With oxygen choking your nostrils
And monoxide nodding your fingers to pull the trigger
Of death dancing on the tomb of your destiny
Like how a dose of metamorphosis
And a 1mg of juxtaposition
Is the repertoire of a king of curmudgeon.
But ever heard a musical note?
Then you’ve heard the story of how joy lost the war of happiness to bitterness.
Ever heard the sound of silence?
Then you’ve heard the face of evil and the thoughts of serenity
Joined at the hip of rock of Gibraltar,
Nodding heads at the gospels of Gothic prophets
Spewing sermons of a perfecter way to word the meaning of love.
Ever heard a Mockingjay sing?
Then you’ve heard the lullabies of suicide,
Like falling from grace from the eyes of your one true love
And landing on the plastic bag made of her silence
Only to wake from the land of death and catch your voice breaking at mid sentence
And mend it with the lies of sunshine that you call your life.
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 2:51 PM UTC
I hope that if you read this, you will understand fully the journey it took to get here.
i've heard every excuse, i've heard every justification. you have to understand, the worst part of it is the feeling that it is something about me that makes them do it.
i don't think you know how much it hurts, when you tease me about the mysterious stranger with whom you now share your bed. i know he is a stuffed animal, but until you stop teasing, until you stop toying, all i can feel is the ******* blood boil in my veins, and then the anger subside, and anguish churn my stomach.
everyone has their trouble, and i have mine. the trouble with me, is that i trust you with my life, and at the same time, i have learned from experience that i will always be betrayed. it's not me, it's her. i just wasn't there enough. i just didn't care enough.
i've always known that every excuse given was false, the truth is that i cannot provide anything but love and happiness. i cannot guarantee wealth, nor riches. and in a world where dreams die young at the hands of reality, i have no future. there is no world for me, only the corpses of my dreams, smiling cadavers, waltzing to their demise. this is a weary world for the honest and good.
i want you to read this, and at the same time i don't. but most of all i would just like you to know that i love you unconditionally. i would like you to know that i trust you. and i would like you to know that the sick feeling i get in my guts when you're not here, is not mistrust, just bad experience telling me that
things don't seem to change.
i've been through so much **** i was broken until i met you,
but you'll always be the one i think of when i wake, my soul mate.
Jul 26, 2012
Jul 26, 2012 at 11:23 AM UTC
The sighing winds had lulled me here;
The waltzing boughs, too, had fallen for its charm;
The ivy, ferns, alders and the birches;
The quivering hemlock against my arm.
The travelled path was now long left behind,
And on hills of gentle moss I stood and gazed about
To find the purple cloak of twilight painting me,
And all the pines, not one left out.
II
The harvest moon in its splendour came rising,
Had poured itself on the waters deep;
The birds were silent, the wind still sighing
Had brought the woodland a drowsy sleep.
The dawn had come in golden light
And where I was I did not know -
I wandered long to find the path again,
And in the distance heard the river flow.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC
cheap perfume, dreadful news, i pay my dues while
miss drunk and deluded decides to trip all over my shoes
i'm her champagne flush, a nicotine rush, and her unrequited crush
but the only thing i ever notice is how the crowds hush
when you start humming tunes, singing blues, like you always do
your smile subtle, warm, holding far more joy than it ever used to
i sold your ring to the highest bidder, but my best friend actually likes you
he persuaded me to donate it all, it’s what you would've wanted me to do
so while tonight is all cheap perfume, dreadful news, and paying dues
when miss drunk and deluded once again steps all over my poor shoes
it's easy to smile and stay calm because i'm drunk and deluded, too
and when i dance with my eyes closed, i am slow waltzing with you
Jun 14, 2023
Jun 14, 2023 at 2:07 PM UTC
I let my hands glide,
slide
ride up the back of your shirt
Flirting finger tips slowly dance a pas
stall
bra slips while other fingers edge your skirt
Gently waltzing the inside of your thighs
sighs
eyes closed as the sensations tingle and spurt
Violin fingers soon find a pantiless lip
slit
**** where strumming fingers begin to flirt
My lips start creeping down from yours
slower
lower until you're forced to remove your shirt
Rhythmic breathing gets heavier as my lips meet your chest
breast
invest my tongue along outlines of your vicious curve
Pressing with tongue and fingers until there is an uncontrolled moan
groan
hone in until resisted shivers race through before fingers insert
stroking you as tongue dances its way down gently
slowly
violently, your quivering lips utter a shaken moan to release a blissful squirt...
Jun 21, 2011
Jun 21, 2011 at 1:58 PM UTC
seductive yellow rose
waltzing
beside the green lake
in this city of sin,
are you tempted
by things forbidden?
steadfast
steel cut
spellbinding
you indulge in nothing
except
this dark chocolate croissant
which seemingly melts in your mouth
© 2021
Jul 11, 2021
Jul 11, 2021 at 1:35 PM UTC
I walk
on a park so serene that birds gather on the tree tops to sing
a song that so nostalgic in a way you lighten up
and smile to embrace the setting sun an overwhelming feeling nonetheless
and you cannot ignore the view of the diving sun splattering depths of maroon
to the innocent clouds co-waltzing by with the grey blue sky so obvious
which only shows a beauty the nature can offer to the mortal eyes to see
the scenery is alluring that I would rather enjoy to sit under a tree
than to relax my body on a bench that are lined in an amusing way
facing the performance of the slow warm afternoon
I write
under a tree to feel the fullness of this afternoon scribbling poems
because in this way I feel amazingly close to nature that I appreciate every bit of it,
watching the butterflies playing a game of hide and seek while the one hiding
are the little pretty flowers rooted near the trees and the other rooted under the bench
and how I notice the trees are laughing cause the butterflies can’t seem to find the shy flowers
because in this spot I can see clearly what’s happening around me every bit of it
kids running around full of innocence and happiness not minding the butterflies
a lovers embracing each other like they are the only sweet thing around
and gaze at each other’s eye that seems likely make the time lingers
and look at the bench again that is not so far away from me
an uneasy feeling, a feeling of familiarity, a feeling of connection
just like me sitting alone under a tree a girl alone on her bench
I look
at you partly because you’re alone like me enjoying the dawdling afternoon,
partly because you have the beauty my very heart so desire,
partly because you make my heart skipped a beat this past few days,
partly because my love for you is growing every day I see you here and
it is not that hard to focused my all attention to you ignoring everything around me
even the love the couple emits with their embrace but you seem to be in trance
with the love the couple radiates and closely in your eyes melancholy tears fell
but still your even perfect when you cry and even angels weep to see you cry
maybe you miss the love you once have, maybe you feel so alone and so absorbed
that you feel there is no hope for the right one for you but only if you would look at me
here by the tree and I’ll give you a hope, I’ll offer you a smile so warm
but I can’t tell I’m the one only you can, but I’m sure I could kiss your tears goodbye
and you’re the only one I see myself dancing and holding each other’s hand
to stand near the tree when the sun sunk and this is all I’m hoping tell you about it.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 6:24 AM UTC
(sonnet #MMMMMDXXXVIII)
Now moonlight glances in to splash from hence
My silent comforter, then floor, its pale
Eye keener than aught voiceless notice, frail
Calm frozen in reply with snow's pretense
Beyond these darkened hours, as if the sense
Ere waltzing through a pegged load on th'exhale
Which fingered jonquil nubbins like green's bail
Is gone as swiftly as our love's defense.
Oh Tyler! I could never dream as twere
Of all you held in soulmate, bashert to
A breathless fault, whom none compare to, poor
As saying is. You were all and more, aye knew
Me better than I dared to think, and your
Love in my veins, though dead, I love you too.
22Mar16a
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 12:14 AM UTC
I often find myself deep in the world of unknowns
of wind,
of fire,
of water
She exhales
sending static electricity waltzing through the air
as if the particles find some deeper attraction in her presence
Her fragrance
zests the cracks of empty space
Within a single whispered word,
my breath escapes me
in hopes that it may embrace
just the sound of her voice
Her heat fills up my spine
like a thermometer
and illuminates the heart
Fiery eyes burn hieroglyphics onto my lungs
Her touch gives me the fireflies
and in a frenzy they collide
igniting on impact
Their spilled embers
cast sillouetes on my eyelids
of our candle-lit dinners
Silk hair
pools against the bed sheets
Her lips would be the moon
to my tidal kiss
Frost nips at her imperfections
But she never freezes
for she changes feverishly
like bubbling water
If only transparent
Her forms cannot define her
But,
She is mystic like the air
Spontaneous like a spinning flame
A kinesthetic ocean
and I’m good at drowning
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 10:34 PM UTC
This is the house of Bedlam.
This is the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the time
of the tragic man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a wristwatch
telling the time
of the talkative man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the honored man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the roadstead all of board
reached by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the old, brave man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
These are the years and the walls of the ward,
the winds and clouds of the sea of board
sailed by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the cranky man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
beyond the sailor
winding his watch
that tells the time
of the cruel man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a world of books gone flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
of the batty sailor
that winds his watch
that tells the time
of the busy man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is there, is flat,
for the widowed Jew in the newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
waltzing the length of a weaving board
by the silent sailor
that hears his watch
that ticks the time
of the tedious man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to feel if the world is there and flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances joyfully down the ward
into the parting seas of board
past the staring sailor
that shakes his watch
that tells the time
of the poet, the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the soldier home from the war.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is round or flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances carefully down the ward,
walking the plank of a coffin board
with the crazy sailor
that shows his watch
that tells the time
of the wretched man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
3.7k
The lotus dances on the lake at night
under the bright moon
and the water lily ballets upon the river
the fairies dance in the shadows of the moon
the flowers waltz in the meadow
and the moon casts its rays upon the ground
making the ground look like silvery
shadows of light hitting the
waltzing flowers
the sounds of crickets and that of katydids
and nighttime birds fill the
air
and the sweet fragrance of
lavender, lilacs, honeysuckles,
and roses fill the air
and the lotus continues
to dance on the lake
to the song of nighttime birds and insects
and the water lily continues
to ballet upon the river
to the song of the flowing river
that she ballets upon
only at night
~Hilda~
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
Waltzing under red moonlights
as thorns tear tongues. We laugh
with black roses reposed in the mouth.
Severed Bonds serve savour songs, as Love leaves longing letters in ponds
of heavy healing hearts.
We waltz still, not as statues but temperative trumpeters tailing tundras with tabinet tufts.
Aug 3, 2017
Aug 3, 2017 at 11:07 AM UTC