Love
I thought love would come. The afternoons were weary; Evenings mushy and musical Twilights accumulated unaware Her eyelashes fell heavily In repeat coquettish motions In music-filled evenings And candle-light dinners She shimmered in white wine A black night danced in my veins.
I woke up the next morning With colored marbles of careful words Which clattered against one another In the vacuum of my heavy head Saying nothing in particular.
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Poetry based upon actual experiences, not one thought up in the intellectual aridness of a pseudo-thinker. Words as they mean in the specific context of recollected thought or image , not meaning several things at a time but that which re-creates an aura or a haze of an earlier experience.
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