PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

`

revolutions of the second hand
innumerable to the watchful eye
has not comforted this bruising
nor can this heart run far enough

away from the pulsing gangrene
when off the darkest mile it tread
in the cooling of a fading day that
gentle crushing fixed completely

drowning in despondent smiles
wafting wavelets forlorn, wailing,
whispering affections now silent
wanting a happier, more innocent time

`

.

In this lifetime of striving
childhood's tentative bumbling,
youth's arrogant impertinence,
middle aged regimented conceit,
in old age, encrusted intolerance;
when will we likely ever win?

.

.

unwritten words;

unprinted books:
orphaned thoughts

are never well placed

as an unread tome
or an uncommented
online posted poem

.

.

flame
running faster than
you can flutter a lash
flash
rushing swifter than
we can sniff a flower
fresh
rippling quieter than
they can queue on Black
Friday

.

.

Never too early, never too late;
Life can be a heaped-up plate.

Today you are comfy, tomorrow, lost;
Yesterday's loss determines the cost.

The future disguises no blemishes.
Hope's a parachute that never perishes.

.

filled with melancholy
mood lit by lampshade
names and faces dissipate

weathered post it sticks
if only the memory did

` 

My butterfly is no longer mine, 
I wonder if she ever really was; 
When she alights on my shoulder 
I know she wants me to hold her - 
Flies off and she's mine no longer. 

My butterfly so frail and fine, 
I wonder if I was ever hers; 
When she returns to kiss me again 
I know she's more than just a friend - 
Flies off and gone forever more. 

`