He blinks,
and with his lids I rise,
To life he has bore me-- carelessly,
With no thought to my birth.
A flint of pity goes unyielding--Struck down;
sparked upon the torch I burn at port.
I’m granted,
my first breath in his sight,
Just as the reed of the water would crack
In the evanescence of the cold stream--
A stream he spun, oblivious,
Forsaking in his beauty.

His heart has lips I can not kiss,
And wounds I shall linger with.

His iris--
A shadow-house of toil and dreams.
I, the happy slave to his flame
So fully glanced-- to steal my hope,
As he thieves the flowers,
Upon our grave.
As nightfall
is combed down from the heavens,
And painted upon the shores of the creek,
So is his eyes-- dark; a glass-like desolation
Looming past my heart
To the innocence of my desires.

His heart has lips I can not kiss,
And wounds I shall linger with.

Never have
I loved a god as he treads,
But would it be so different
from the fan of his lashes,
As they twist my affections into form,
so be I begotten for his disregard?
He broods,
His tears fill my veins,
Dripped still from his dour past.
I could bear his memories,
And bend beneath them ‘til I break,
Contently, without debt.

His heart has lips I can not kiss,
And wounds I shall linger with.

False floor,
He bids me gently,
My honest ally; The light
that flicks off the water’s façade--
Beckoning my steps towards death,
To drown me tenderly.
He blinks,
And I gasp for mercy,
For ne’er did more splendor pulse,
Delivering me in one flutter of time,
‘til his lids drop shut,
And I fall from existence.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...