I envy them, him, their love has a pureness seen only in the final pages of old dusty fairytale books, each kiss I believe renders them immortal, spells dispersed and magic created in the enchanted presence of such a love as theirs. Such a simple existence, a moments kiss and passion fills their auras spilling outward, exploding into the melancholy day and yet, a kiss filled with so much desire and not an iota of indecency, as though they are God’s angels, as though their love is blessed by the heavens and coveted in white feathers. They speak with their eyes, knowing glances that say, ‘ill be back soon my love, but in these seconds without you, know only this, I exist for you, for you.’ I envy them, him, her, I envy them.
This is an observational poem on a couple I see almost daily, in the latter part of their lives now they still love each other with a pure depth, she stands at the gate waving till he’s at the end of the road, where he gives her one last wave before he turns the corner… It’s a beautiful thing to watch.
They decieve us…not man, although they too lie,
I’m talking about books, poems, stories
Love, does not shackle us to endless grey skies,
or cage us behind thick heavy trees.
Love is boundless, without an origin
and missing the tethered rip of an end
alone, is not a facet love will bring
and if it does, my sweet, he is no friend.
Alas, you are caught in despairs whirlwind,
tangled between pain and belief, entrapped
in a splintered labrynth with false King.
Awake now, your golden light has been sapped.
Wait no longer, gather strength and esteem
this is not love, just an endless bad dream.
The smouldering kiss of suppressed
thought, silent flames, burning
memories, (inse) ‘curities fueling
the empty hours that were once
seconds. The vile shadow of intent
for all thoughts have a root, all
words have cause and I feel for the
distant tug of space beyond
prostitution of the flesh. But alas,
some pages we rewrite in frenzied
passion and label it liberation,
erasing our markings with the
over chewed end of a HB pencil
till pages are torn and the canvas
becomes a hue of melancholy grey.
There are oceans between us
to large to comprehend,
Your sun sets as mine begins to rise
and rises as it sets before my eyes.
Eternity is written in those warming
skies, as Shepard’s all decree their delight at this divinely sent sight.
I watch the ticking clock
For no man time will stop
With each tick I am lost
searching for you in every tock.
The ocean kisses my soul
Caresses my soles
in tender thoughts of a lovers role
collecting the last pieces of my
heart you stole,
Such a vast space, yet I feel so whole
and I wonder do you know.
And still time slips through the veil
of glass, grain upon memory they sail
through intimate atoms, no fail,
treading barefoot through a destined trail.
For a brief moment we share time
in a timeless loop of yours and mine.
Darkness shrouds us in our minds
as the last whispers of pink turn to shrine
and our souls traverse till they find
eyes of love from a soul of their kind
And for a brief moment we share time.
It tugs at me
pulling at strings
There’s a part of me
that isn’t sure
a part that coverts
not peas in a pod
not the same
More like two
sides of the
Yin and yang
a mirrored reflection
Yes, the same source
and the missing parts.
There’s a part of me
that isn’t sure,
that we haven’t kissed
on times path
along some far of
*Shh*… ould we?
I mean can we?
I’m tangled in a web
of your desire
on your tongue
the curve of your voice
as it entwines through me.
I pull at the ancient sticky
essence that seemingly
were we ever unbound?
I sometimes call
the dark abyss of stars
like I did that night.
And you always answer
as you did that night…
my defiance quenched
for a moment.
Yet I still find
at that string…
… I guess it might snap.
…or I might discover
your soul has been at my
side the entire time.
what I’d like,
Is to see them all.
Perhaps one day,
with sweet tea,
conserve and clotted
cream. Bare feet,
plush velvet cushions
and hours to spare…
Actually, what I’d like
is to see the way your eyes
flash with excitement
as you tell me their
stories and the way
your voice skips up
an octave as you recall
the days. And of course
we’d need to sit real
close, so I could see,
I’m thinking, my cheek
against your chest,
my hair spilling over
you and your arm