Another unfinished piece from my poet's mind. It's something comparing writing and lovers. The things we all forget and the creativity we all forsake.
Your Lover's Pen,
Shows the Poet's Face.
With only words and ink--
I can be made beautiful.
My heart is at work, Love.
A deep angelic voice,
English accent echos.
"Passion never dies."
Behind worn veneer
Costume balls without end.
Be what I am not-- to life's dance,
Be all to me.
And to my tears.
We once made love under the hanging tree.
Now we are an all but forgotten
Shard of light crossing the night of the new moon.
A tower of life falling.
A distant quill writing in
The lost writer's grave yard.
Mindscapes flat.
Kiss me.
Last of the true lovers.
Tongues entwined as cobras.
Can we ever truly be as one?
Or will this forever affair be just that:
-A forever affair-
All the want in the world
Cries into the open ocean void of our time.
Life's little troubles made me forget you.
How sad is it
when no one remembers -Us-?
Not even once while poets
Not even -You-.
Creativity died one day.
Nothing marked the passing.
Yet with only words and ink--
I can be made beautiful.
And whole.
Again.
Passion never dies.
-posted by Nobius 1:01 AM 