(i)

and now words have escaped me;
fled from constricts of ribcage,
I suppose
I should have seen it comingβ€”
enthralled by your sensuality,
by beauty,
by the way your lips devise
methods that in turn separate me
from myself.

(ii)

Brown conch shell on grey sand;
today tastes better,
rattles me in ways unthinkable,
beneath a silver moon
in a velvet sky
somehow, somewhere distant;
with every breath
I’m convinced it was an epic in waiting,
I was built for this.

(iii)

No tongue can hope to withhold fire;
nor eyes erase memory,
in hopes
that naivety can get away unnoticed,
unseen,
greener than the ocean,
than shivers that spread from nape
to beyond the base
of your spineβ€”irresistible force of attraction.

(iv)

Chorus of trees sing songs;
racing with tomorrow
chase the amber horizon,
we as a species tend to limit ourselves
too much,
too often,
syncopated thrum of living,
peel off hesitation, with a shrug
and a sigh, head into a new direction.

(v)

We are galleries of everything ever felt;
features
painted in both charcoal
and watercolors alikeβ€”
stop, feel and savor the taste of feeling,
of invisible pull
that beckons one to want more than
humanly possible, I will just be here
waiting to steady you if required.

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: Brown conch shell by Pratik Patel, Unsplash

Laura hosts at dVerse and invites us to write a Modernist/Post
Modernist
Fragment poem. Come join us! πŸ’

Posted for MTB: Picking up the Pieces @dVerse Poets Pub