dreams I can’t remember, a time I can’t forget

of wince the time I fall asleep
I dream from time to timeless time
Upon these fantasies I for once
In a long eclipsed being, I can see
I feel things as though I was still young
They seem so real if not in third person reality
Yet even my waking memory of youth demise
Are no different than out of body scenes
Yet upon my fading dreams I feel
And it feels so actual as though that is how it should
Yet as I wake I know what just surpassed
was the suppressed realities of a book I never read

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a bayside ciy

The late November evening horizon
Portrayed as a baby blue eclipsing
to prim pink rose that sits softly upon the sky
as it is reaching over a place I may never see
I sit on the outskirts of town headed home
Engulfed by the subdued excitement
Of time gone by

abstract of being

Prim anticipation of dews early arrival
Is how my senses fill before I see you
I know pretentious word seem so vague
But the abstract of being so seems
That your existence is unbearing to me
I want but to touch and be apart
Of an imagery that is mirage in front of me
What solemn words could a hurt sickened poet say
Than you are but the reason my pain goes away

soon

Sing me to sleep and carry me away
From the pestilence of my making
Away from the ill harbingers of my thoughts
Sing me to glad tidings of merriment and more
Let me lay upon your breast as your voice soothes
And as I go away carried upon the tune
Kiss me on my lips so I won’t go in vain

frozen warmth

The frost covered azalea flower
Sits upon its creator in late November freeze
As it held out for so long
Coming to be in the early fall warmth
Had now frozen upon the stem
Its crimson hue capsulated in ice crystals
Prompts the thought of inevitability
That even the flowers of utmost permanence
Must succumb to the autumn chill

entitlement of the dusk

A silk interpretation
Of imaginary delight
The stiffness of the senses
Upon a euphoric plight
Hesitations fade unto impulse
As shivers begun to ignite
Rises tides upon thread counted sheets
the excitation of the will
has become a carnal might
as it breeds within the night
the convections of a man
upon his lover’s bare sight
now lay by the forgotten wayside

love departed

For my pleasure
Would you talk to me
For my pleasure
Would you lie with me,
Would you care
to feel for me,
and for that pleasure
would you die for me,
it is for the pleasure
of the honey bee
that the flower grows
and it is for the pleasure
of the flower
that the seed in sown
for pleasure is but life
and my pleasure is you