No softeners required, lemon or lime my ecstasy my medication as I pace along lines of the mind’s track field– the muse knows nothing of the promise of tomorrow nor predicts slow opening of your eyes, your groans bittersweet as cinnamon sweet and savory all at the same time– still making me grin your eyes dark as olive give away hints of a night ungovernable, let them trace my back and dust it red as moonlight dances and touches upon the shelves– I have waited too long for expressions of your chocolate onyx want, I want the song; I want the song.
Every night when I lie down beneath the stars I die, my only companion being a blanket of sky and words ringing loudly in my ears, and every morning as I wake my mind conjures new images for the soul to dip in— and even though the eyes may only discern one step at a time I am convinced the universe is leading me nearer to my purpose, my reason for existence for which I sought to embrace the world.
The self is often unseeing, unaware of the path it’s supposed to be of opinion, I gasp as the cold air caresses my cheek as though beckoning to observe the landscape, the underlying possibilities for my poetic heart to indulge in. The clouds diffuse morning light to a subtle sweetness, as I ask myself the following questions: Who am I now? who was I before? I suppose awakening is when we finally learn to be true to ourselves disregarding what others have taught us to be, and while I choose to remain close to origin, I can’t help but wonder why branches deeply rooted long to stretch towards the horizon–
I am conscious of half empty tea cup and few rainier cherries poised on the table, their thick and creamy yellow flesh eager for a second bite; eat, love and offer your palms in prayer, there is only so much the heart can endure, early thirties led me to understand who and what I truly am– poetry my vivication, my pulse, my strength as city remembers a forgotten tale and shadows shift like pearly rays across a cruel moraine, ignorance’s silhouette shows no remorse as verses scatter into the open– I am a flickering flame familiar with its various hues and shades, as I ready myself for challenges my pen has yet to face.
You leave me unfinished staring deeply into the abyss of time, I, a rough sketch of desire, attempting to put words together your scent lingers as rain conjuring a gentle yet dark pattern upon my skin, remember when we were strangers– in tandem stationed in the bucolic hills the shape of those days meant nothing if either one of us wasn’t contained in them, your scent dances around inside my head as autumn leaves cascade to the ground unhindered– the night has already beckoned the body to rest, conscious of raw rush taking over as I drift into sleep. Your lips erubescent — taste of the finest raisins and cherries oh, how I wanted you to define me! You are poetry that seeks to align me with the world without pretense; I, a warm and persistent candle wafting in the wind, remember when we were strangers?
Breathless, I watch as frost grows over the windows, the cold air allows me to discern the thoughts forming slowly in my mind, and fire which despite freezing temperature continues to fill my chest.
Can I embrace you, to wake me from oblivion? Brush upon your lips lightly, offer a kiss, and rage against the hypocrisy of adult world? They say there is something better waiting down the road, but how can we fashion what’s to come when the bondage of past continues to plague us? The world before us is shrouded in smoke, and we as a nation are fed sweet milk in the form of media– what disconcerted times are we living in?
Sheathe me in your ardor, as I offer you the soft wisps of black hair around my nape touch me darkly, decadently as the wind does to a rosebud– I sense the desire burning inside you through the sigh that escapes your lips, and if by tonight, I forget my name, remind me for in the end it’s youth which needs to take up the torch of perspective and change– I breathe deeply, as eyelids open to affirmation in the line of your mouth.
To say that this was how it was meant to be would be ideal, a glimpse of roses riotously blooming in hopes
of appearing indigenous– I write down words that beg to be kissed, to be read in whispers
knowing the world is cruel and acquisitive.
Close the door, lest storm washes away emotions like glowing leaves outside, it seems to me that love is nothing more than a metaphor wasted nowadays, but then you come along and prove me wrong as certain as vigour that returns to trees in Spring.
Needless to say, I enjoy silence, hovering in the air comfortably around us, you’ll find I am sugar rush that helps put things in perspective, inhibitions have never really been able to hold me
back, so, leave behind your moments of shame as stars continue to shine behind begrudging clouds.
Everyday people urge us to be authentic and yet, when we cut ourselves open for them to see they flee– I am growing accustomed to the ones who are deep, so, I am learning to navigate the ones
who are trivial instead– you are an orange sunset amidst smoke and chaos,
desiring my wit and charm in matters austere– to say that this was how it was meant to be would be ideal.
As changing leaves in November, as secrets I carry with me into sleep, fascinated by shimmering kisses that hurt, I pen down thoughts of the moment. There are days when I’m the wind urging earth to wrap its arms around me and closer keep.