Petits XVII

A sweet sensuous secret

Plays upon my lips

How I delight in holding it close to me

Softly whispering

in between your sweet kisses

That I’ll never tell

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The promise of pleasure

Conjures up piqued fantasies

That ever will pale

In comparison to what will come

And yet we wait with bated breath

For what will be

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I feel your soft breath

A gasp escapes

Errantly revealing

The desire i hold within

Afraid to let it be yours

Where does the weary wind go?

Where does the weary wind go?

it seeps into the hearts
of the woed….

there it rustles
and stirs
up the tendrils
of hope.

it blinds the eyes
that see no future.

it breathes life
into the lives
that desire
no being.

its fingers trace
upon a teary face
the long forgotten
caresses
of a loved one
lost in waiting.

 

fix this

i can’t fix this

something has given away at the seams

an eyeless needle

is all i possess

so come and sew me up

stitched through and through with scars

but patched up with your kisses

 i will threaten

to fall to pieces

all you need to do

is pull the right string

i await to be entangled

in the chaotic confines

of our harmonious mess

there is nothing better than that

which makes me say nothing but yes…

solemn busker

Solemn busker
Will you ever be nearer to me
Than you are with your wistful violin?
How else could you ever dare?
How else could I ever bare?
How else could this be?
Do not act as if it is only I who deceive.
It is only music after all
Played better by hands less grimely-worn than yours
Yet to rest a finger upon the violin’s rest….
Am I as agitating as the poverty that demeans you before me?
Do you ever hope that the thrown coins
fall from a closely distance?
that my smile is not only for your tune?
I know you play “Ave Maria”
Only for me
Though badly
Do you ever escape into an imagined embrace
Of course you would
For I should never admit
That I do.