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How Her Eyes Had Shone

And o’, how her eyes had shone,

like stars upon this crystal lake,

when, at twilight, o’er still waters,

did those distant beams of light

dance wild upon a glassy surface,

and shone as tho’ a thousand suns

had but imprinted upon the water,

and so, gave such light to her eyes.

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Posted by on July 7, 2017 in My Poetry

 

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And So, I Breathe

I breathe,

so that this air

shall not be forsaken,

that in this moment of life,

the wind shall not soon release me;

for I was much younger then,

and took for granted the air,

that it had called upon

the child in me

to breathe.

 
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Posted by on July 7, 2017 in My Poetry

 

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Lest I Hold True A Memory

Take from my soul this present world,
let it bear no fruit from out my mind,
for I still do but live and breathe
within the sweet tide of yesterday;
its mem’ry lingers, sweetly mellow,
holding me soft, so warm and kind,
its weight ‘ere etched into my hands,
and e’er, enfolded, thus shall it stay.

Tho’ such mem’ry does tarry uneasy,
shall I be made of it more in light,
by its guard, its hold, and its sanity,
and by its resolute want of staid;
shall I burden myself with outcomes,
shall fancy take hold, or take flight,
shall I bear sword for duels unkind,
or shall familiar melody be played.

‘Ere, tho’ but in vain, do I still hope,
as rain sheds off from thirsty flower,
as is my sullen mind yet left adrift,
unharried, its way, so too, undone;
‘ere, shall this listless summer dawn,
wither away with each passing hour,
then, let my prior night’s keen aware,
be as a heated strain upon the sun.

 
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Posted by on July 6, 2017 in My Poetry

 

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A Rose Descent

How now does this rose not wither,
whilst I cradle its petals in my hand;
but how it does tremble with wan,
as if its beauty would swoon of me.

How wild as the wind it does play,
its petals as wisps of silken sheets;
o’er the palm of my hand, it bleeds,
as in its stay, it knows but to caress.

How free to the sky its scent is away,
the odorous calling of its heart is sung;
as with my sighing breath o’er its flesh,
would it give me this kiss to rely upon.

How now it pales to the sun in my hand,
‘ere the pallor of its gaze dies too soon;
see it now weep for its coming demise,
and in final tremor, slips from my grasp.

How then upon the earth it does plunder,
to fall in pieces, as shed Autumn leaves;
dropping to my knees now, I covet its fall,
then softly die, in harmony with the rose.

 
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Posted by on June 29, 2017 in My Poetry

 

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This Stoning Heart

Speak now soft to me,
to this stoning heart,
let me awaken then
to some flash of sun,
e’en if only martyred
with false reverence;
for it casts, callous,
swift upon my breast.

Let shed this burden,
this weighted breeze,
that it may then lend
some weight to breath,
the air I cannot feel,
yet burns in my lungs;
‘ere no discernment,
‘twixt me, or this air.

I admit life, yet uncast,
living but to fill space,
such paltry sum, am I,
of some grand design,
as if I were a portion
of some broad horizon;
the earth I thus attend,
else my heart dies lone.

Do not mourn for me,
one can but surrender,
for all stoning hearts,
‘ere no delay of tides
shall e’er come ‘tween
you and I, each of us;
let play now this ode,
song of stoning heart.

 
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Posted by on June 25, 2017 in My Poetry

 

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The Martyred Kiss

A splintered trace of some empty sorrow
still clings to the pale breath of her kiss,
and she gives away her right to breathe
for the sake of her lips’ relinquished sigh;
I taste the sudden madness of her tears,
and the sweetness of her impassioned lips,
which chafe upon me with an untamed rush,
as her submission tenders into my mouth;
she’s barely aware of her reclusive hedony,
as her lips drag wanton hopes across mine;
not yet acknowledging her uneasy patience,
without feign, she releases labored breath,
and becomes martyr to her own seduction.

 
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Posted by on June 23, 2017 in My Poetry

 

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How Softly Your Words But Scream

Lay soft your flesh upon this bed,
let souls go not for sake of night;
stay your form, this softness wed,
yet waking unto morning’s bright.

Pour my spirit ‘ere upon your wake,
this rippled surface of your flesh;
your words, sweetly, do but slake,
kiss this breath, my scalded caress.

Speak not for tomorrow failing,
but this twilight song you play;
weak am I, but for your wailing,
what softness have you to sway.

How softly your words but scream,
of somber souls in need of stone;
now ply my soul to fleshless dream,
love not borrowed, but e’er to own.

 
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Posted by on June 20, 2017 in My Poetry

 

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