silvered hair
golden fading skin
a broach
hooked through
my flesh.
I can write you
the soft wing beat
humming bird
in your throat.
A rune
Celtic myth
cavorts
upon your shoulder blade.
Yes
we are older
but not dead
not without the prickle
of pores opening
in invitation.
These thoughts
these days
disguised as impulse
writhe and spin.
Press my palm to your brow
and accept the joy
the shame
are you surprised?
how similar we are.
This
my poem
my distilled essence
a warming white wine
upon the bench.
Spill with me
let the taste be
a warning
8 comments:
lol. please ignore the bad language at the beginning of the last comment .... :-D
I'm in the same boat creatively speaking. So much so that I wonder if my poetry days are done.
I have been thinking along the same lines actually, just don't seem to have the same creative drive I once did, I don't think in poetry so much anymore.
Shall we give it up then?
Or take a hiatus?
Or just wait and see?
just carry on as we are I think. On the odd occasion I write something I'll post it.
You do the same.
Ok, agreed :)
I know it's childish of me, but I like to show you my little scribbles.
I'd miss you if I didn't get to say gidday once in a while.
It is not childish at all, we share ,we always have, it works for us both.
I just want you to know, if and when you feel it is time to stop, I will accept and not regret or rebuff in anyway.
We have had, an amazing run kid, blessed really, but I want you to know, if you need an escape clause, it is written in our contract ok?
ok
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