Announcement

Collapse
No announcement yet.

Sera's Worde

Collapse
X
 
  • Filter
  • Time
  • Show
Clear All
new posts

  • Sera's Worde

    care is a whittled toy, the brown clock
    with a bird flapping away
    and tears that it drinks in
    are my sobriquets, the lilt
    of sense so heard it braids the shocking
    disturbed air with thought
    and renaming you, lolita,
    femme fatale -- your hell
    among the sodden people insanely wicked
    that doubles as an intent
    in realizing all your life was
    made from this, for this --
    study of the stained glass shattered, wanting
    the waving to part for me
    and for seas to be bleached
    with snow above the land --
    black beauty that has no time for you to waste
    and so you're gone anyway
    searching for the lost symbol
    of innocence; the betraying
    eye which shudders with tears and my mistake
    the babbling brother with
    too much time, in his wake
    I am divided -- no longer me
    and somewhat you ... a race to what love detests
    on corrolaries that spread
    like lanes in my silly mind --
    here again, your mouth is
    open to chaos, your breath upon me almost hurts
    now that connections lost
    have crowned me the fool
    with my double entendre --
    how cool the dizzy water that we can never escape
    how deft tge trying hands
    which, clutching the brown
    bank, are pink, so pink, and
    they will soon be very grey
    saturated with the sea that after, still a birth, the kid
    walks among the fir trees,
    lines of blue upon the pages
    that love him as he loves
    them; sweet peace, in so many words the heart, broke
    upon the eddy, down where
    lethe springs from shut lips,
    there the flag of unconscious
    waves, like a stolid vision of the soul with its key
    half there, still waving; the key
    and my dull heart that heard
    from beyond the grave a cry ...
    lightning in your pretty eyes, my blue baby bathing
    in tartarean cell; gifted with
    her own answer to the riddle.
    crost with a thistle and mace,
    the stained glass day you left and never again slept
    with those muses in trouble.
    my darling, my sweetheart,
    they have scorned you twice,
    and you grew silent with me ... I looked for a cliff
    to dive from, some terrible
    emptiness you couldnt take;
    and I am an unsure baby, now,
    its tragedic split mine alone that silence won't help;
    your love upon a branch, suns
    itself and crosses into mine,
    looking for the visage of God
    to hold and kiss and laugh with, my wild little daughter.

    I love you ... I love you ... I love
    all of you, the you they'll never have. Mine.

  • #2
    written for national Poetry month, last year. A spontaneous style.

    Comment


    • #3
      I enjoy the stream of consciousness style.

      It suits the raw emotion, you express.

      Comment


      • #4
        you have become so adept at this style. it's like you've invented your own personal language. I'm captivated.

        Comment

        Working...
        X