PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

It is a quiet love,

One hidden behind my glasses of wine

And your inscrutable combination of empty alphabets.







He touched her silently,

To let her go, and yet,

Still she remains tied to that which she despises,

The vulnerability of the hours

And the insects.







It is nothing, I insist.

Truly, it is nothing.

A passing glance, a smell of indecisiveness,

It is nothing

And nothing it shall remain.







A blacksmith is harsh,

A blacksmith is tall,

The durability and malleability of his wares is undeniable.







You are a flash of indigo scarlet,

Navy and ebony,

You are piano keys never touched,

You are guitar strings never strung.







How lonesome am I! she cries,

Lawn chairs and towels, lawn chairs and towels,

The ache of the sunburn on her shoulders,

I am wasted,

I am nothingness.

Pretty salve, pretty salvation.







Cryptic, cryptogram, crypt.

Crypt, crypt, crypt,

Die, rot, die, rot.

Let the beasts consume the heart that never beat.







The fence is tall and long.

It stretches from here to there,

There to here, where have you been?

It is a tether, it is a release,

Build the sweet fence and never see the other side

Of the whitewashed picket glory.







Contentment or heartbreak, I don't know.

Sadness is release, happiness is release,

Breathe, breathe, breathe,

The lies are beautiful.







Smoke curls, smoke dissipates.

So goes his belief in that which was living.







Confusion, I lament, confusion.

Is this the bitterness of regret?

It is empty.

It is worthless.

I forgive nothing, I forget nothing.







The touch of daddy’s hand is calming.

It brings that pleasure unrestrained,

It is that sweetness never again felt.

Daddy, daddy, where did you go?

Do not deny me my desires,

Let me go and let me drown,

Your love is that endless sea of pain and beauty.

I must take your boat

And bid farewell to the fishes.







A linguist, oh, a linguist.

To spin the words, and the heart,

He is a master of lies.

An art such as his, it is a craving.

In nomine Patri, et Filiis, et Spiritus Sancti,

Grant me peace,

Grant me peace,

Peace be unto you.

Amen.