It speaks to me; from cream softened oranges and greens disenchanted
confers and in turn pours into my veins and lifts,
November dreary, dour and dark when deeper truths trickle from walls that are spiced— I can never complain that years have been wasted, as the wind breaks in and sourwood blushes; it’s much too easy to give up, to disintegrate. The half-light of morning scatters reveries that once used
to be mine, perhaps it too is aware of the dangers of mitigation— as fallen leaves
curl upon the ground and hint; beauty and pain are two sides
of the same coin. And now caffeinated tears are being replaced, tell me, what can possibly be more fulfilling? November dreary, dour and dark flows freely into my pen; sketching all that’s possible as wisdom settles in, we are finally one.
the perfect arbitrator; I’d like to believe the sting of our lass kiss wasn’t nearly as sharp as wailing guitar wringing— like apples and almond milk, against the window and thorough-going. A shuddering sigh escapes from raw lips, “would I be happier without it?”
There is a peculiar shade of indigo hurt in the sky that reflects in my eyes, as the night commenced with its jagged tongue narrating tales while gulping the clouds, the thunder and rain an idiosyncrasy which I find both difficult and necessary to understand.
Did you think I was unfamiliar with the game blind to the lipstick smear on your collar, I am the heart of city a highway that leads to both dreams fulfilled and prison of unresolved thoughts. I see the way you look at me as though a berry brightly coloured, sweet and sour,
which you can graze with your tongue melt in your mouth, I am October feisty and unafraid of being blown away by the system by the wind,
I am awaiting the birth of new order– a voice that will deafen the chaos that surrounds it.
Nowadays love is bittersweet, it’s both scattered pieces of soul and a request to dismiss ache, to outwit insanity I have come too far to fall behind there are Poets strolling along an endless path
of stormy white, I refuse to be kissed by memories that offer nothing
but gloom and despair.
The night is coming around to a close as the sky is streaked with shafts of pink light and hope, thrumming in my ears are the words ‘forever is a feeling misunderstood,’ I am sifting through the lies and searching for what’s true. Touch is ambiguous to feeling, to words
that have yet to prove that they’re worthy of desire,
of trust there is something about the way you smile that doesn’t reciprocate with my own— I am convinced that Poetry will either lodge you in my heart or throw you out, you are marked by the same obstinate longing as I.
Perhaps it is my folly; tucking away conscience beneath unswept rubble, leather bound journals, and era of forgotten moments that separate abalone clouds from charcoal— it verbalizes the shattered mirror through which we occasionally catch glimpses of the world; this moral culpability, these jaded lips painted fuchsia merely to put up a brave front— I am guilty, for how else can one explain the incessant thundering of heart? Pull up a rusty lawn chair, shake me and take me by the shoulders, loving someone deeply is equivalent to being tortured; and now I am lost, wandering aimlessly around areas of sparse population. I have always hated it when authors send characters down the elevator shaft, these honey-dipped corpses locked away in a room where even moonbeams cannot hope to reach. What a waste. If only I could touch them savor tempestuous torso before it rises past me like a host of thoughts irresistible; I am sorry, did you really think I changed?
Periodically, panting, the gleaming parquet floor creaks underfoot; pervasive thoughts halting to every urge, like rose wine the sense, the taste of you awakens every ounce, every fiber of my soul-–
With every changing season, I am looking for a reason.
Boastingly, brilliantly the blue sky inebriated speaks of bravery, as I trace circles with fingertips from lips to collarbone, thoroughly exploring wisps of breath; Autumn is a time for bearing against the wind, for introspection, a combination of events, chances, wishes that thrill beyond measure.
Dichotomy tells of contrasts between two things; ebony black brooding versus dove-white conviction, I have loved you without knowing how, without knowing when, I cannot decide whether it’s clairvoyance or déjà vu that draws me to your being—only that sweet sting of syntax serves as confirmation.
Are you afraid to believe? To embrace the aching sensuality of your thighs? I adore their resilience, their vulnerability, their anger, their passion, their truth and lies.
Love iambic – Love invigorating
With every changing season, I am looking for a reason.
Adumbral red this feeling; echoes round and round the colonnade as a gospel choir, oh how I love it so– symptomatically, the leaves fall and kiss the ground, as though aware of all that goes on in my heart;
pale heat, palmed rose
I have recognized you, while listening to sweet rustling music that inspires the wild pirouettes of earth-bound truths— would that obsidian sky look on as we gaze into each other’s eyes and become one; fervour painted upon less than rosy lips, you are the flower, I am the thorn, watchful and vigilant— seeking to make our way through on a much more somber note,
only lovers know of dilemma, hunger for the light I have come to know that it begins as a storm and continues
to become a poem— can you feel the thunder within as days become colder and shorter? I have recognized you.