Post by Whimsical||MUSE; on Oct 31, 2011 19:44:15 GMT -5
A/N::GAH Unfortunately the syntax of the poem doesn't ... translate into the boards. spaces mean nothing apparently. SADNESS.
We Always Remember.
Eloquence has left me. He has left me;
but there is warmth
tight and pulsing underneath my breast --
and it
flutters when I touch it,
when I
stroke my fingers through it's feathers.
It aches to fly, but youth keeps it close.
---- I keep it close, afraid to watch it fall.
Not yet, /not yet/.
One day, I whisper,
falling into hopes
and
dreams:
I've become a willing harp,
strings bending to the pressure in his hands,
trusting a sweet sound to purr out between my lips;
he knows: he knows
there is nothing malicious here,
only sweetness pouring out like honey.
We drown, but it is death that I surely welcome;
a child-death, small and tight, knotting up
between my legs.
We burst, our seams twisting
and tangling together. Where do I end
and
he begin?
Are these my hands or his,
my face, or the
cunning curve of his neck?
I hunger; his eyes dilate.
Realities have blurred,
but he burns, and so I burn with him,
in love, without the hate, for once
without the filth
to destroy the tenderness
I've found
buried
in the sand.
Lightning has struck,
Sun-blind, I find myself again.
There are enemies everywhere,
but I've become s t r o n g
------ the bird itches to fly to test the strength of her wings.
October 31, 2011
We Always Remember.
Eloquence has left me. He has left me;
but there is warmth
tight and pulsing underneath my breast --
and it
flutters when I touch it,
when I
stroke my fingers through it's feathers.
It aches to fly, but youth keeps it close.
---- I keep it close, afraid to watch it fall.
Not yet, /not yet/.
One day, I whisper,
falling into hopes
and
dreams:
I've become a willing harp,
strings bending to the pressure in his hands,
trusting a sweet sound to purr out between my lips;
he knows: he knows
there is nothing malicious here,
only sweetness pouring out like honey.
We drown, but it is death that I surely welcome;
a child-death, small and tight, knotting up
between my legs.
We burst, our seams twisting
and tangling together. Where do I end
and
he begin?
Are these my hands or his,
my face, or the
cunning curve of his neck?
I hunger; his eyes dilate.
Realities have blurred,
but he burns, and so I burn with him,
in love, without the hate, for once
without the filth
to destroy the tenderness
I've found
buried
in the sand.
Lightning has struck,
Sun-blind, I find myself again.
There are enemies everywhere,
but I've become s t r o n g
------ the bird itches to fly to test the strength of her wings.
October 31, 2011