Maybe no one can distinguish which voice is god’s voice sounding in a summer dusk, because he calls with the same rising frequency, the same rasp and rattling rustle the cicadas use as they cling to the high leaves in the glowing dust of the oaks.
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I kneel on dandelion carpets and weave locks between her rose and purple iris, I assume avuncular circumspect on her horizon. Her sky sucks rain that swallows my smoldering sun. Tasmanian blue gum shadows sit restless in the river’s bend, Ornithes Areioi circles concentric, beneath a placid gibbuous moon, we sighing lovers who will seperate at Auroras elastic dawn, will lay our dark unfurrowed heads, together we listen to the oracular shoal send waves of gold that beat their withered shore. These Aubaudes are pulped from tears far removed from ancestral sod, we acknowledges ourselves status as strangers, inappropriate disguise, odd habits out of sync with sidereal time. We live in non noceptual time as the turning of the seasons gain in constancy, stars wax strong and the sun increases its might, in a remote province I am the first words of the argument. We exist no more or no less, we exists just as little as that which has never been, everything that exists has been in the next moment, belonging to the present, however unimportant as it may be, is superior to something important belonging to the past I breathe molecules once passed through the lungs of Leonardo’s, I settle into the rhythm of my pedestrian beat. Spurned by capricious tears blown by changing winds from hail into laughter, her sharpened tongue steels my will and seduces my senses. My identity is embattled, fragile and feels the quick stir of paean, oscillating intonations of mortality stagnates beneath me and my shadow. Her protuberance, her instrument for threshing his grain and maybe no one can distinguish which voice is Allahs voice sounding off summer dusk. Maybe Jezebel calls with the same rising rhythm, the same rasp and wren those sighing lovers use as they lay gazing, as their stare clings to the high leaves of the glowing dust of the oaks. Those lovers stares might blend so intimamtely with final crises of swallows settling before dusk, we wont be able to say with certainty, if that will be their last song sigh, for cry or song. http://www.youtube.com/embed/mUCQBQEYFwg
I kneel on dandelion carpets and weave lilacs between her rose and purple iris, I assume avuncular circumspect over her horizon. Her sky sucks rain that swallows my smoldering sun. Tasmanian blue gum shadows sit restless in the river’s bend, Ornithes Areioi circles concentric overhead beneath a placid gibbous moon. We sighing lovers who part before Auroras elastic dawn, lay unfeathered the...
Added 06 Jul 2012 | Category Love Poems
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