There are no words when the deeds are done
An escalating tide unto the river’s bank,
An end for all seasons as it was for you and me,
Did I take what was not mine
Give was what not to be given.
Cursing of dawn inviting the night;
Here comes the rain sunlight is far out of sight,
Hot summers day no breeze to cool no water to cure,
At the end of what is and will never be
Is the answer we were so afraid to see.
I love thee and you love me not
For that is how it ends,
Goodnight my eternal friend.
I laugh to keep the tears behind;
My eyes deserve not to moisten,
Nor my lips need to sigh,
I regret nothing when the end comes
Inevitability is what the moments have become.
I fear neither death nor pain,
yet living alone strips the means of that I know,
pray for me the saints that there might be
the only one I know is thy mother that raised me from a boy.
Let weep and then I must rest
yet my time is not here as of yet
and the angels within my thoughts whisper:
let it be you are made who you where meant to be
your thoughts your actions yours deeds
shaped you into the man you see
this shall pass and unto glory you shall rest.
A Botticelli beauty a temptress in disguise,
A Siren with a song a Layla within a sleep;
Cheeks are full and lips so alluring
Body is like a delicate ripe peach within season
So full and soft and a desirable taste.
A charming enthrall of which I dare not think away
From thy thoughts of thee, oh my everlasting love
Unrequited desire a fire in the dessert deep
Burning what was never there nor do I care.
Passion love loneliness of a few
understanding another man’s plight
is not for you to think or care
it is only for the lonely to bare.
what love upon the lips of a lover
that was not spoken within a quiver,
a gentle cascade of stimulus rush’s through my body
as the mist is upon thy face in a joyous kiss,
to call it name would be futile,
what is it called when an infant breaches and the world becomes him
for that is how I feel.
Gentle breeze upon thy back in blistering sun
A gift to the dearth, an awakening to the dead
That is how your kiss reminds of who I am.
What woman that does breath
does not breathe beauty within her eyes
it is not for I to say if she is lovely
it is only for I to say she is for me.
How I see a Monet is not how I hear a Mozart
And how I want thee is not how I need thee.
Lust is a trickle lost within time
Yet love is the sweeping falls that cascades all emotions,
Beauty is how I need thee lust how I want thee.
Beauty is the paint and strokes of the brush,
And lust can be a muse That is often left behind for the work of art
that has become thy desire and thy love.
Ever cascading love as seasons go by
Delightful bliss and splendid tryst,
How l needed thee how I love thee
Given love you not let ashamed
Given hope I have not let astray,
Give thee thy hand I shall never let go
I shall love you stronger than the core of my bean
Thy modus operandi shall be:
To never stray, too long to kiss only you,
longing to hold you when each day is through,
To honor and never once forsake thy truths.
How I love you; you shall never notice,
Love you dearly, the man you will never see.
The lone flower grows within the field;
Delicate and alone it will pass before the frost,
his leaves are strong and bright
smell is sweet and pedals never dry;
never to be present upon a lady’s wrist,
Or waiting upon her vanity,
But just to grow and see the stars
that only he will ever know.
Like a film noir I am bitter sweetly in love with thee
Yet I feel not to whisper such things,
I barely can speak to you but it’s not sign of intellect
It is a sign of my respect.
Everyone I’ve known to love has gone away,
And I fear for thee to think of me in a past tense way Of negative thoughts
I would rather there be none at all.
I shall weep; thy heart shall quake yet I sleep sound,
The dawning night fears me not yet I sleep alone,
The emptiness is what it is, the roach complains not for who he is
The spider does not regret causing fear,
So shall be, who I am I was meant to be
A melancholy love tryst within a never land
To bask in poetic fantasy, a love only to be written by my hand
And never to be spoken throughout thy lips.
What beating and longing of his heart
Was not cemented in lust of the man who slay,
His knife the only phallus he would ever have;
Tortured youth only to birth longing death,
His loves would laugh and leave and cause such pain
He would only know to love the same.
A slayer as he had walked the night
He knew not fear yet as he felt it from his prey
it would fascinate him every time the same.
And as he was caught and tried and hung within the night;
Those who remembered who he was within his darken youth
Realized that they where the lathe and knife
That bore the creation of his treacherous plight.
You see those in love and you see those die
Yet you know not either until you obtain them,
Love and death are the romantic’s plight
They are the two embodiments that make up our life.