Monday, January 11, 2010


Let us tonight not talk, my love,
Of gangrenous stars, crimson sky,
The mutilated moon, life that is a lie,
Of flesh that rots away, joys futile,
Or even of love, that perhaps is no more
Than fleeting illusions of hearts bled awhile.

Nor let us talk of poetry, fated
To feed silver bookworms, who when sated,
Will only turn to another dusty tome
Of poems- uncared for, unloved, unread.

Let us instead be silent, for once, tonight,
Let us close our eyes, and devoid of sight,
Let us converse through our fingertips,
Interlocking tongues, and quivering lips,
Let them trace wordless poems on your skin,
Taste cardamom and cinnamon deep within,
While sighs, like smoke from a slow fire, escape,
Let me imprison your smells, sounds and shape.

Yes, shelter me tonight, secure in your womb,
Unable to go on, weary, I seek this tomb,
Till the sun rises, and life intervenes yet again,
Praying all the while that the night is never slain.

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