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.
|
|
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.
|
|