For I find no other more glorious than you. I have spoke with the moon, it too sides with my heart. It knows my sorrow of longing.
Yes, I have spoke with the sun as well. But only does it laugh, for it says the moon sighs with any sorrow. For it knows only the bleak and lonely. Even the stars find my adoring affection for you to be a distant chance.
Fading as does their light through the eons of darkness.
Can we not ignite what I fantasize to be soulfully sublime?
For even the skewed brow that sits upon your head, I find beautiful. Your laugh, though you find it obnoxious, I find it contagious. It lifts my heart as does heat in the cold lips of winter. Your intensity to produce success drives me with admiration.
You lace each moment that we are together, with enchantments. You spell bind my soul with each look, I am drawn to you like madness to the ill. You are a remedy to my empty space, the idle times my thoughts are drawn before I sleep. When I walk alone among empty streets and drink whiskey beneath this old cherry tree.
Your eyes, though you find them dull, plain, stagnate as stone. I find them to be jewels of rarity. An anomaly of the physical, they are vivid with hues of spirited rapture. Bliss pours from them beneath the delicate kiss of the moon. When I look to them, my soul is swelled, intoxicated beneath your stare, as is a patient to anesthesia.
I am fevered for your love, I fear I am sick with love. Cruel it is, for me to burden myself with the unrequited. But I am lost of any words to help my escape, nor do I wish to escape this cavity of yearning. Though it aches deeply, painful to speak of, I wish it to bleed.
I am a foolish man, hoping my wounds will invite your heart to mend mine. For I know nurturing is keen with you. Immature this be, I am hooked to your aroma, your taste. Many times do I savor you in my thoughts in the lulls of my mind.
You are ripe with beauty, soul and flesh. You dangle from the branches of life like a ripened peach, swaying to the wind. Succulent in presentation and feel, waiting for the perfect tongue to relish your Being. To take you from the perils of the isolated and spring with you to the passion of breath.
I do not say these words lightly, nor do I strike them upon my page without luxury of thought. I am meticulous in my omission of love.
What love is there to be had, if not yours?
Have you omitted your love or do you hide it in fear?
Heart capturing stories in, A Man's Traveled Heart
Coming soon, The Bleeding of Words.
Thank you for your support!
Popular posts from this blog
The Blameful Two The world broke as their hearts bled the shadows of their misery. Seeping upon the world, flooding with the scars of agony. Their eyes trembling beneath the moonlight as their blood stained hands shimmer. Their lips sewn as each is caught in a lie. Both bare, exposed to their duality. Their curtains drawn thus unmasks the bodies they have slain. The skeletons of truth dragged through the spoils of deceit. Each, unwilling to speak. Their cheeks flush in rose petals. Their skin taut to the anxiety of their arrest. They are now the victims of themselves and each the other. Two hell's preached in the underbelly of their weakness. The fraudulent thought in avoidance of pain. And now they stand as nude as the beginning of life, Adam and Eve. Shaking, they are without words. Silent, bearing only tears that fall to the blood soaked floors. The dark whirlpools of hypocrisy. Neither is without sin and neither is without murder. Their souls weep dearly a
The Moles Never Learn I found myself walking in the snow, my head aching with a sharp pain. I feel the back of my head, there is something crusted upon the rear of my skull. I dig my nail carefully into it. I can feel the crust collect beneath my nail like dirt. As my feet trudge through the sixteen inches of snow I look to my nail and there in my nail is blood. Dried cells of my body. Upon seeing this I become confused with worry. I place my hand once again upon my bloodied skull and began to examine it. I slide my index finger like the bristle of a broom, back and forth trying to see what wound had allowed such blood upon me. But after several seconds of feeling about, I find nothing. No scratches, no lacerations, nothing. My worried confusion musters down to mere confusion. I rub my eyes as I am strangely held with a slight daze. As if I have been interrupted from a deep sleep. And the evening air is not helping my situation. I am comfortably wrapped for a day tr
The Choice of History There lies an entrance, a red door to a place far different from any other. Where magic is real, time is alive, but love is dead. It is a place of desolation and pain. A place where blood flows from rivers and mountains are built of death. It is a place so horrible, the door has been sealed shut. Locked for all eternity, a place once flourished with bountiful colors, a place where ever growing thoughts and wonder once pranced like dear through meadows. But like anything, there comes a time of destruction. Where city floors were leveled, trees were chopped, and hope was a lost. A time when everything ran its course and something new must take its place. A time when death lives and life is but a drip of water falling from a distant cloud. But not all is lost, though the entrance is locked, hidden from the eyes. It can be found by the heart, by the vision of faith. It can be brought from its slumbering chambers if only one dares to find it. To l