The thought of resting, without your blessing, Sent shivers up my spine. The kiss on my brow, as it’s all quiet now, Left a request in my eyes. Though, what is a request, without a strong grip, But a prayer for more time? No, it is but with capture, and villainous rapture, That you shall be mine. Roll over tombstones, and howl to the moon’s home, That dusky, darkened night. Pick the star for your quiver, the spirits for your liver, Pluck your eyes from my sight. For with each reflection, a flash of detection, Behind firelight, If my teeth would glow, the more you could know, The speed of my flight. Shake the birds from their roosts, as ever more proof, To the depth of my sin. Catch each fleeing feather, as my promise to never, Stray from this bend. Chase the flow of the river, fill the bowl of the beggar, As much greater men, Have fallen far from confession, led yet to reflection, Of their untimely end. The clock is ticking, the well bucket dripping, Fly far from these lands. Send prayers to your light, for by the break of the night, You shall be, in the heat, of my hands.
My words are gone, all given away, To the puzzle pieces of your heart, Ghosts put together by lines I say, When we’re alone and in the dark. Your shifting shapes, my marionette, Your little games aren’t over yet, But what could I give, with nothing left, Besides my heart, your final theft. May I stay silent for a little while, To watch your violent, longing smile? May I stay my lips, to simply see, If my quiet touch invades your dreams. You, the lovely reaper in my garden, Set down your tools and catch your breath. The spring is not the time for harvest, But time for sprouts to wake from death. Sow your seeds in me, my dear. Just as poetry holds future near, Labor no more and stay your fears. Watch this grow; Lay with me here. Budding blossoms do crown your hair. Your peaceful pollen flows through the air. Your patient waters nurture and care, For the precious flowers who grow so fair.
A crest of messy, restless hair That waving tide upon her brow, Brushed by rushing morning air. The night we spent is over now. Unprepared for her departure, I wondered when her eyes would open, To see the wounds left by the archer, Who finds his mark when love is chosen. Will she choose to leave me here, Without the kiss, whispered promise. Will time and distance interfere To loose her grip upon this fondness. Pray, if this be the poor man’s bower, Let her sleep another hour. Pray, you sky, let loose a shower, So she might stay another hour.
I was listening to The Smiths and daydreaming, staring off wishfully. My mind was empty but for one thought; I was thinking of how the crushing weight of mortality made every hour of my life so valuable. The seeming finality of death made every moment I tightly held, slowly kissed, and firmly embraced your heavenly soul, every spare second my eyes met your own, every soft whisper you sent to my ears, every sigh your breath set on my lips, it made it all worth it. I pace in circles struggling to believe that any afterlife I’m offered could ever be sweeter than the one life I shared with you. If I ever met your soul again, among the ether of the stars, my heart would pound with love and pride, as the cosmos weakly shuddered, and shielded its eyes, and beheld the blinding beauty of your light; It would be nighttime and raining, The Smiths would be playing, and I would be dreaming, until I opened my eyes. Until the song slowly died.
The clever lips That gilded my eyes, The lovely hips; Traced neatly demise. The haunting kiss A beautiful guise I’m left with this And fraudulent sighs. Pity be with Who sees her coming. I’d prefer this O’er never loving. This end is bliss, Though, very tragic. Death by her kiss, So very classic.
Our marriage is not of vows, But fingers of flames, tracing curves. Breathing into each other’s beds, Smoking the smoldering coals, Which once lay dormant, now, Incensed by the passions of fools.
She brands my ears, with steaming gasps. She tears the flesh from off my back. With searing claws, she rings my finger; My eyes reflect her dazzling embers. As smoke chokes the air and sets free, Sparks floating off, into the breeze.
It simmers through the night, As the sun begins to rise. The birds begin to sing, The blaze begins to die, And this pile of dry ash, Is divorced into the sky.
Do you believe, that gods can bleed? Have you seen enough, to conceive of, divine mortality? What would it mean for us? We who must develop love Of vulnerability, Of blood, Of death. All so we may draw our final breath in peace, with our minds, and our dreams, drifting in the cosmic seas of infinite night, and lovely, lonely starlight.