Desire is the flame that burns a covetous wick, lighting its own way * Truth is the river inconstant, always forging
By Testabout a year ago in Poets
Dredging through offal words that insist so little to find that rare spark * And if we find them, do we bellow them aloud
Their collected grief: gripped in tissue, wiped on jeans or gravity pulled * Situational - splattering their shoes and the
My banality is my desire for my own as I breathe hot air * One day I will stand my own mountain majestic whims and mercies be Damned!
Two-dimensional you breathed in a new world became Mobius * And we drank of you all nectar sweet and divine still, your cup runneth
They sally-sauntered and jiggy-jauntered over the cobbled stone of the archy, bridgy, oily, smidgy pathway to its throne
And you can see it. It's barely even skin deep, yet, we all bleed red.
By Test2 years ago in Poets
He weeped blue murder, shoulders heaving, unable to grasp his own grief.
in the blue of my reverie, your death conjures shadows of old ghosts
A cavity formed blue and breathless near my heart when I heard you died.
Blue is the watcher behind his eyes desperate for you to see him
into that secret blue I hope she'll share with me when we meet again
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