Congeries

Blindfold me with silky whispers

Strip me naked with your eyes

Tie my hands taught with metaphors

Tease my senses with your scent

Drive my imagination wildly insane

As you degust my innate nectar drops

And I plunge deeper- in your complex folds

Where I live and die, over and over again

As pleasure of your unbeknownst…wishes

Poet of the Light © 2019

Blindingly

I often find myself subdued

Liken, a room without a view

Until I set my sights on your picture

Painted by your heartfelt words

Unlocking my mind, my soul

And between those lines, I go

Listening only to your whispery voice

Akin a trickling flow water over ice

Where I escape this acute silence

Into a realm with your silky essence

Nakedly we peregrinate shores

Where all our lofty dreams gather

As we lay upon them like a bed

Releasing all our tense constrictions

Intertwined, savoring each other

Like divine wine…from heaven

Poet of the Light © 2019

Comfort-less

 

Years have past but not without

my personal felt notice-

regarding each of those missed moments.

 

There still comes times

when I go mindlessly into other rooms

to initiate aflutter conversations

of something inspired to speak over

and the empty cold silence has to

drastically remind me- you’re gone.

 

I stand in a sorrowful dumbfounded mess

never really knowing, for just how long

let alone recalling…what day, today was.

 

Poet of the Light © 2019

Glint

 

It’s over

the flicker of hope

extinguished

by a gasping breath

exhaled too soon

thru a premature grin

 

The hollows of a hearth

cold and silent

broken darkness

all is as it was, again

 

Normalcy for me…lives on

 

Poet of the Light © 2019

Otherwise

Haphazardly, in the process of finding ourselves,

we can still get lost, become self-complacent.

Becoming far too consumed on one focal point

that we are more like some horse with blinders

just plodding along- while in our mind

believing we’ve just finally hit our stride

and more important, way out in front of everyone else.

Never even noticing we are the only ones in a race

and missing life and all the scenery along the way.

There is something to be said of an old adage,

of stopping to appreciate the roses along the way.

I’d prefer to be a horse in some pastoral setting,

roaming mountainous green meadows- unencumbered

than some cosmopolitan rat chasing…toxic crumbs.

 

Poet of the Light © 2019

Cobwebs and crowfeet

The lines on my face- are evidence

Of roads traveled, choices made

Not necessarily always mine- or finished

Some just appear for seemingly no reason

Thus, is the punitive signature of time, itself

But like inked words of any frayed book

They tell stories, some depicting for chapters

And yet others are much more subdued

Like a fog adrift at twilight along an ocean

Ghostly implications, purposely left hanging

While some are obvious, others are darker

Not all stories can be considered informative

Riddled with clues, thereby providing answers

Leading naive readers off a precipitous cliff

Some stories in books are merely like art

Subject to interpretation by individual readers

But always predicated on their true motive

Of what they hope to find or dismiss- sneeringly

Relying more on conventional restraints, idioms

Too afraid to learn or accept any new truth

Deceptively veiling their true inadequacies

Because they got lost, or really have no clue

Unable to comprehend the author’s thoughts

And yet, none of the lines alone can define them

In pictures- painted inside visiting minds by words

Greater is the challenge of peregrinating a heart

To appreciatively understand the trails and tales

Of roads life created or discovered by a person

Experiencing them unblemished in whispers

Risking knowledge lived with them from…inside out

 

Poet of the Light © 2019