Manger of Daydreaming Luxury

In the cradle of her arms…

There is never a hastened hush.

It is a haven of opulence.

And, I am…it’s welcomed visitor.

Though my time there is often visceral.

I go there to expose my painful history.

If I could choose where to fade away…

I would be where the taste meets on her lips.

Placed ever so gingerly at the curvature of her hips.


for now,

I am resigned…during daunting times…

To seek out what my love…so freely gives.

A manger of daydreaming luxury.

In which to lay my weary head.

Nothing spoken of conditions.

Nothing needed to be said.

the Poets Still Sing


Whatever of true life there is in thee leaps in our age’s veins.

Wield still thy bent and wrinkled empery.

And shaken thine idle chains –

To thee thy dross is clinging.

For us

thy martyrs die

thy prophets see,

Thy poets still singing!

  • Anonymous