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Monthly Archives: April 2016

Before The Sky Fell

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Before your eyes were stained with cold tears,
the sky was a more relevant shade of blue.
Before my hands had but withered with years,
your flesh held all the youth I ever knew.

Before sorrow wrought upon you, unspoken,
the splendor of your heart could fill the earth.
Before the quietus of your soul was broken,
no one dared compare to your spirit’s worth.

Before your screams had shattered my breath,
your sighs were the only breath I had known.
Before the morrow set a quake to your death,
you o’erwhelmed with a tremble of your own.

Before your heart could no longer hold mine,
it bore the weight of the world with every beat.
Before your eyes had closed for the last time,
I saw myself in your gaze, my life, complete.

 
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Posted by on April 29, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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Is This Then That One Moment

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Is it vanity that I must elate
whenever you call my name?
Is it conceit that I am steadfast
to the sigh you shed for me?
Have I now but this to wonder,
that the sky is not the same;
because the stars in your eyes
are all the light of day I see?

Shall I hold this promise dear,
that you love me, above all?
Shall I vow to give my love,
that you keep it in your heart?
Shall I rise above the clouds,
and not fear that I may fall?
Is this then that one moment
when my life may have its start?

 
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Posted by on April 29, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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Speak To Me As The Air I Breathe

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Speak softly to me in long fables
and in the sweet myths of your past,
paint some assemblage of your life
that may let this wonder now last.

For I have already wept with you,
for the days you and I were alone,
and of passions that had left you,
when e’en want was not your own.

Speak then wildly of your needs,
’til your love then becomes an art,
and with your unspoken memory,
let this soliloquy spill your heart.

Days between us left unattended
had but caused our lives to drift,
but your ardent words softly made,
now mend the gap of broken rift.

Speak to me now in passion play,
for only I hold the light you seek,
let your intent be strewn undone,
that with abandon now you speak.

 
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Posted by on April 27, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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Walking Away From The Mirror

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That which tortures my soul
is not these solitary walls
which I have built for myself,
nor the limiting kind of space
I created as my comfort zone;
no, what agonizes my spirit
is the mortal confine in which
I wage a lifetime of battles
against the evils I’ve created,
in feign reasoning and need,
by virtue of my own design.
I must remedy this madness,
and bring some measure of order
to the chaos of my misgivings
and consequences of my foibles.

When I step outside of myself,
and look away from the mirror –
merely a reflection of my past –
only then, with wiser constitution,
heired by actively moving forward,
rather than merely contemplating
the stains of what now lays behind,
can I achieve the needed strength
and stability to stand on my own,
and walk then with a stronger stride
toward my true and final destination,
to which I was so very near before
I sat down in this confined space
to ponder how I built these walls.

 
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Posted by on April 24, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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To Be Unspoken

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Words may often fail me,
heeding innocuous temper;
a boldness within my soul,
which, by its own standards,
would forgive feign reasoning,
and by design, be uttered as sigh.

This thought then is not bold,
but tempered steel now wrought,
that, by its incarnation, ’tis hurried;
and with abandon, flees from lips,
as bartered voice, breaking silence,
’til the words become my very breath.

 
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Posted by on April 24, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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A Song Of Osiris

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I bear the weight of these wings;
much as they are spirit to flesh,
which spread and fold within me;
I am but the prodigal Phoenix;
see how the sky withdraws itself,
acquiescing to my inevitable rise.

I am the summer’s undying wind,
dancing alone in great torrents,
while in my exuberant manner;
and while in my languid repose,
I am but a subtle, swaying breeze,
wherein words are easily spoken.

I am wilding and wanton incarnate,
yet I am but a gentle caress of silk;
one turn of the flesh may be scalded,
while another may be carried to bed;
leave me unattended, that I may swoon,
and I shall be the breath of your sigh.

 
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Posted by on April 24, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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Drip, Drip, Drip, Drip…

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Drip, drip, drip, drip…
the empty rain, it still echoes,
dripping e’er wildly o’er the din
of yon tumultuous night birds
resounding in reclusive hollows.

Drip, drip, drip, drip…
so vile, these water splashes,
away you with your torments,
as if confined solely to me,
no rest, but dripping e’er still.

Drip, drip, drip, drip…
’tis not soothe, but cold of rain,
that shallow, hollow steel caress,
undying, as if by some prophecy,
wet and wan with its barren intent.

Drip, drip, drip, drip…
the cool vestiges of rain’s delay
bring yet this uneasy bit of relief,
but still, it slaps at tender flesh
with its vile drip, dripping stain.

Drip, drip, drip, drip…
quite mad have I become now,
so tortured am I by incessant ides,
away you, this watershed mind,
I see now only my sweet ferment.

Drip, drip, drip, drip…
my mind awash with the torment,
as of flesh ripped from my being,
and laid out, bare among the wilds,
‘ere am I, dripping, slipping away.

 
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Posted by on April 19, 2016 in Uncategorized