...like you keep me tucked away
in the caves of your comforter,
sprawled across your bed
(the sheets were cotton,
but your skin was satin)
and throw pillows littered
across your room -
words spoken, just as sporadic.
keep me tucked away.
silence is water;
we sipped on it like long island iced teas,
still soaked from April's forlorn
wondering if waddling into the stream
was akin to diving in.
words uttered were dripping
in watered honey.
saccharine like ambrosia's
breast we suckled
earlier this evening;
i was in drought,
and you were anything but.
III. Menage a Trois
_ honest truth ?
i dream of you, always (more often than not)
skin painted olive and murlough tucked away
in your eyes. i think I wove one too many
dreamweavers lined with your musings,
but I crave your verses to drift into sleep
(you are poetry)
i'd drink you whenever the night lulls me
(hate your absinthe just as much as
a false sense of security),
your nectar revives my muse,
cradling beauty in death
and poison in absolut's.
i read you, over and over again
like the count of monte cristo,
in hopes of unravelling a
This is stunning Mark. All of your poetry is great, but I love how this one managed to have such an impact while still being short. You really have mastered your craft haven't you? I mean, you found the balance between long, lengthy gloriously descriptive writes and the quick punch in the gut (or wherever) ones.
Anyway, I've read this one like 5 times and it's fantastic.