Saturday, May 9, 2009

Moj Kochanie

In darkness I am far unwoven,
thrust against and into grain;
fostered unrelentingly.

To listen, to choose:
I've none but destiny;
the pull of blood
from in my bones,
it calls to me.
Sugary sweet, but tepid ahead
are the visions that I create.
And soft, unspoken emptiness
is ice; restraint.

But forward holds a different place
from anything I've seen:
Hollows filled with browning leaves,
ageless whisperings,
dug firmly into place;
crushed solely from these things.

Mirage or freedom: both are here,
both are underneath;
both inundating, still;
both are willow trees.

In spite, I palpitate your name,
I writhe and fall and seethe.
In spite, I throw it forward still,
to hope for everything.

And I laugh at the absurdity,
at every luscious following;
the painted, prismatic breeze:
the way you call to me.

1 comment:

  1. your voice is the sweetest thing.
    it sings in my blood.