Within the realm of beauty,
all that my mind may imagine,
such inconceivable wonders,
yet I may never fully realize
the true nature of the divine;
just as I may zealously gaze
into the depths of your eyes,
yet barely sample the taste
of the dreams of your heart,
though burning with passion;
the very comfort of your soul
lies not within your form,
but here, within your eyes;
trembling in crystal vision,
I may come undone, without,
your slightest touch of want,
within the realm of beauty;
here, I am more of a man,
but less a part of the world,
for I am more a part of you
than in the world of myself.
Monthly Archives: July 2015
Within the realm of beauty,
#12 brushes his way past inmates,
without contact of sight or words;
like walking among the zombies,
with no one caring who you are
and barely knowing themselves.
As mindless drones in a maze
with no beginning and no end,
they live out their hapless lives
in set routines and forced habits,
already lost to moments of peace.
No one is immune to madness,
like a virus, it spreads en masse
to even the most rational minds;
#12 shuffles toward a metal door
leading reluctantly to the outside.
The morning sun stings in a blaze,
blinding to unaccustomed eyes,
yet, it’s his first taste of any life;
#12 trudges over a barren yard,
crumbles to his knees, and dies.
To be shorn, not unfolded, but staid,
as a memory cast upon the ground,
borne by this earth as blades of grass;
and in this moment, to be awakened,
as with some warrantless expression,
that I should have urgency to cry out.
To be worn, not garishly, but soft,
as a rose in bloom on a summer morn,
wetted with the dew of a wanton sky;
and with a countenance, to be reborn,
ne’er unworthy of the sun and moon,
that I may love sorrow without tears.
Her lips, unsheathed in aspiration,
bear sullen cries of immortal need;
her lips are as roses, wet with rain,
calling for this kiss to acquiesce;
her lips speak of memory lost to her,
that fondness, in a sigh, unburdened;
her lips, without sorrow, have stain,
and with unrepentant want, cry still;
her lips, in reverent task, now awaken,
that she is born with a kiss, undying;
her lips as submissive petals, wanton,
fall soft into a state of blissful ease;
her lips oft break my warrant breath,
that I should find solace in this kiss.
I have but to walk with you,
by your side, with your hand;
’tis enough to walk this way,
that I should ne’er be alone,
nor you should e’er lose a step;
tho’ we shan’t move mountains,
nor shall we tear earth asunder,
either in our way, or in our need,
we can but walk in serenity,
with our quietus wholly met;
and that we are in earnest,
not of destination, but of time,
to spend these quiet moments
without need to comprehend,
but merely stay this ease of life,
that we may know well each step,
and take pause, here and there,
if only to count stars in the sky.
Where have all the children gone?
Why are there no tears to be shed?
The stars do not blanket the sky,
nor does the moon move the tide;
the plains of sullen earth and dust
shed only grasses, and quickly fade;
as the colors drain away from it all,
somewhere, a lone heart slowly dies.
If there be an end to this journey,
this path I can only follow now –
no longer leading or in control –
let this journey end as it began;
I shall not abide, nor accept
such cessation of my time,
that it should be my burden,
perhaps, too, unwarranted,
certainly, not of my choosing;
dare I extinguish this flame
all too briefly, too easily done.
When does it rain here?
What is this empty realm?
There are no clouds, nor wind,
not e’en a momentary breeze,
that I may find some comfort,
some shadow to hide within.
Where is this journey’s end?
I have seen this realm before;
these streets, unpaved, unused,
the ground is but a barren plain,
the sky shows no signs of life,
and in the air, only quiet stillness.
I have come here
far too often,
unwilling to stay,
yet ne’er to leave;
and here, again,
I stand in the dark,
alone and unafraid,
yet uneasy am I;
if it must be so,
at my journey’s end,
allow me steadfast,
but gentle steps,
as when I began,
and that tenderness,
my only solace
at my journey’s end.
Shall I speak to you
as though my words
were the caress of my hand,
that I may then, unfalteringly,
touch upon your mind
with the song of my heart,
which you so earnestly implore
from my realm of solace,
thereby allowing you, uninhibitedly,
in your infinite understanding,
to partake of my inward expression,
all which I hold most dear?
This is the question
I must ask of myself
whenever I have the urgency
to rely upon your countenance,
perhaps, merely as my measure
for the extent of our intimacy,
in that I then implore
your submission to breathe
the very same words,
and hold the acceptance
of that very breath
I offer to you, unconditionally,
knowing full well in my soul
it is never enough
to simply say “I love you.”