come to me
come to me
in any form
except that memory
~
come to me
in perfume rain
of louring mist,
quiescent gray
or slivers that pierce
the end of day, bleeding
upon the edge near night
colors dim in pastel light
~
come to me
come to me
in any form
except that memory
we were 7
our games were heaven
you were my physician
without superstition
exploring my body
healing my wounds
deep in imagination
with innocent curiosity
i kiss the earth
to embrace the bones
of primitive lovers
calling me (down) beneath
my twilight path
please don’t stare
at my corpse
it’s not me
just the shell
and remains
of a bad decision
i live in your heart
eternally
shot a man,
watched him die,
his spirit married my cause,
and i couldn’t remember
which war i was fighting -
he had no uniform,
wore no shoes.
lost children built sandcastles
in his blood.
always a missing piece,
broken glass
and things fine,
expensive,
delicate,
and the shard
that is found
suddenly, unexpectedly
later
i cannot touch you
oh how i want to
i want to
but it would kill you inside
it would kill you inside
the poem…
the inspiration would swirl
down from above
deep into your flesh
far from the light
and hidden from sight
i would become a slave of lust
unable to see
your essence again…
i cannot touch you
oh how i want to
i want to
to touch you
to touch you
to touch
you
mm
The poet must never touch his inspiration - even if he could - it must reside in it's exalted realm, just out of reach, like the sacred fingertip. If he does touch it, he is no longer a poet - the inspiration falls to earth and becomes human - seeking only, it's own pleasure and craving...
