Pillow Of Winds

The old man, I say, was kind;
unerringly sweet in his nature,
’twas life, as much was to him,
any mere act of heartfelt joy;
as if ’twere a pillow of winds
which lust for solace of home
among warmer rushes of air,
seeking respite in his hands.

Nor, was he prone to dream,
illuminate his own life illusions;
pragmatic, at hand and mind,
life as it came, nothing more;
of what the next hour of a day
might then rest upon his soul,
did, in his respite, but wonder.

And if ’twere to die in his hand,
that elusive white dove of hope,
would his heart then turn away,
dying more with each breath lost;
and ‘ere had he a mind to lend,
instead, simply, freely exist,
as but a natural land formation
wrought cold upon the Earth.

Now, died, as he had lived,
obscure and unnoticed, alone,
returned to waiting clouds,
those which had borne him,
now soft, a pillow of winds
lay serene, in quiet slumber;
e’er shall he search the sun
for that elusive white bird;
and each ending of the day,
find, once more within him,
some flame left unnoticed,
and he, as inconsequential
as the life, growth and death
of all the blades of grass in the world.

 

As In A Dream

Of her eyes, one can only wonder,
how vague in tender expression,
yet piercing in her gaze, is she;
in her eyes, my moves echoed,
from mere caress o’er her thighs,
to spittle that clings to my lips,
left in haste by her hungry kiss.

Of her flesh, undeniable in form,
as if gods painted silk upon her,
robust as a willow-nettled vale;
upon her flesh, waged from her,
or forms of a cloud by its design,
now amorphous in her awares,
rising with every offered breath.

Of her hand, in my tender grasp,
she now so willingly lends to me,
‘ere submitted flesh upon flesh;
that she has weight in her breath,
clinging to my gaze for acquiesce,
her unfettered abandon plays on,
as in a dream, so easily extolled.