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Only traces of her remain,
odor of sage in this
ancient bower.
shafts of light
passing through a canopy of foliage
and visions,
engrossing hearts
with it's pale embrace.
nothing is moved by love alone.
distance-
a blanket of heavy silence.
I rage and wound the stillness,
dance in savage passion,
flailing
striking my naked body
to the earth.
groveling beast,
primordial release,
bloodletting words
page after page-
for her return.
©2008-2009 =poet77
:iconpoet77:

Author's Comments

C. D. this is not about a woman. care to guess?

Comments


love 0 0 joy 0 0 wow 0 0 mad 0 0 sad 0 0 fear 0 0 neutral 0 0
:iconmythicaldamienne:
Hmm..I would say the moon. But then again..I am probably wrong.

--
---
To achieve the marvelous, it is precisely the unthinkable that must be thought.
:icondeviouslili:
La Luna it is. One could even refer to "Wolf Moon" by Type O Negative in this instance.

But that's just me.

--
Be.
:iconwh0rem0ans:
I see and smell the sweat lodge ...do you there pine for the muse?

--
Let the beauty of what you love be what you do. There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the earth. (Rumi)
:iconpoet77:
well done as usual. how are you? C.

--
to the strangest life Ive ever known
:iconpoet77:
the muse of course. C.

--
to the strangest life Ive ever known
:iconpoet77:
the muse, darling, the muse. C.

--
to the strangest life Ive ever known
:icondeviouslili:
I -am- the Muse in my world.

--
Be.
:iconpoet77:
well that takes all of the tragic romance away. a muse needs to be sensual, unpredictable, and at the same time climbing up your leg. at least for me. C.

--
to the strangest life Ive ever known
:icondeviouslili:
The only thing I am not ... is climbing up your leg. :P

--
Be.

Details

February 22, 2008
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