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.

Alas,

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

work-8

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