What stranger in turmoils touch made bled
by bone, by sword, by roan
in skins own fever made whole
bound by rowan and switch
kiss me in glade
found in the slipping mist
called by lips
full of midnight and nightshade
memories
Reflected star
A candle flickers to life
Rasping the spark
Kind words a scourge
No balm to the furies within
Drinking midnight wine
Alone in my bed
Straps that held me down now hold me up
Consenting nonconsent
Strange the last flares of thought
Slipping into oblivion.
Languid knowledge
lips are as wine
intoxicating and infinitely varied
savored and drunk
pressed deep
look into eyes and taste every bit
touch played out as symphony in flesh
fingers flow the course of nerve endings
pulling close
body molded to mine
seeking to build and discover
uncover and expose
the blossom flush of dew
bound and binding
in pleasures remembering
Writing poetry
I have not been writing much poetry lately. Basically because my poetry tends to come from a place of darkness and loss. And lately, I’ve been happy. I unboxed my memories of the night that My Morgan died and replayed through the events of that night. I came to the realization that I did everything I could. Took every measure possible. The weight I had been holding onto for 10+ years shifted to acceptance. This burden I had been placing, that I was the cause, that I was at fault fell away. There was a responsible party and it was not me. Then I met someone interesting, beautiful though I had never seen them. We’ll see where that leads, but like I always say, Only forward. This is good. These are good things. But it makes it hard to write my brooding poetry. I’ll need to find another way to operate.
Memories aggregate
Blooming as flowers under moonlight
Drifting tragedy midst snowstorm
Fallen petals swirling sweet on the frigid wind
