To say that the night will conclude, is aspiration without end. Fiends will unearth red quilted thrones for ceaseless time, There must be a crack in love, so the continents can find beauty in their distinction. And I watch, your bravura delicates, your perfect weight. The happy jewels that wear your daring, blessed to touch.
This is the love poem, more than instant hue, more elementary than exploding stars.
And so for love, Please don’t loosen your grip and watch me fall away, immobilized to silhouettes, Or let dancing fools tap out entries of fire. Or halt my vision, crowded with your soft skin. Or turn over the stones and torch the bugs that carry my wings. Let me walk aside you through the diagrams of rhyme, And let us grow tall, I love you.
This is the love poem, more than instant hue, more elementary than exploding stars.
Let me dwell in your unfastened bastion of exile, Let us collide, as does the coloured universe, And let the lemon trees be reborn. Could we run palm for palm through the bluebells, And come across deer splashed with the sun-rays that dapple through trees. And watch them, as we watch each other, through tender momentary eyes.
This is the love poem, for Roses more than the instant hue of new born blossom. For Roses.
For Roses and the unicorns that join us with the deer, White Roses, forever friends. Can we not grow old into our skins? Sit out on the hill of your picture? I’ll bring my guitar, I’ll bring the tea. And we can sit, and let our love flood the river. Together we could let a thousand winters age our brows, And let the unending summer preserve its untold colours.
This is the love poem, more than new born blossom on the boarder of the northern lights, more than the enchanted bird song, more than sonnets of magic.
Rose, could we not walk through the peaks and pinnacles of the moors to pick radiant plums? Take to the Devon summits to face the rain and chatter with the wind ghosts? Could we not then return to the lodge, having gathered dry wood and rest our feet.
This is the love poem, more than the sonnets of birds or the inferno of the temperate seas.
Can we not make our way to Egypt and whirl, plummeted with turtles, from side to side, through the navy loch? Lose each other for an instant only to be reunited with the touch of a hand. Could we not sleep the long balmy nights, cool in each others arms.
This is the love poem, more than the ocean’s epic romance or fame on the lips of men. This is the love poem, which you are the first to read, and the last if you desire to burn it and set it free like the spirit of a dove, smoking into unfinished time, on-going atmosphere. This is the poem that has been written for you. For Roses.
For Roses.
ReplyDeleteAnd so for the poem of love,
To say that the night will conclude, is aspiration without end.
Fiends will unearth red quilted thrones for ceaseless time,
There must be a crack in love, so the continents can find beauty in their distinction.
And I watch, your bravura delicates, your perfect weight.
The happy jewels that wear your daring, blessed to touch.
This is the love poem, more than instant hue, more elementary than exploding stars.
And so for love,
Please don’t loosen your grip and watch me fall away, immobilized to silhouettes,
Or let dancing fools tap out entries of fire.
Or halt my vision, crowded with your soft skin.
Or turn over the stones and torch the bugs that carry my wings.
Let me walk aside you through the diagrams of rhyme,
And let us grow tall, I love you.
This is the love poem, more than instant hue, more elementary than exploding stars.
Let me dwell in your unfastened bastion of exile,
Let us collide, as does the coloured universe,
And let the lemon trees be reborn.
Could we run palm for palm through the bluebells,
And come across deer splashed with the sun-rays that dapple through trees.
And watch them, as we watch each other, through tender momentary eyes.
This is the love poem, for Roses more than the instant hue of new born blossom.
For Roses.
For Roses and the unicorns that join us with the deer,
White Roses, forever friends.
Can we not grow old into our skins?
Sit out on the hill of your picture?
I’ll bring my guitar, I’ll bring the tea.
And we can sit, and let our love flood the river.
Together we could let a thousand winters age our brows,
And let the unending summer preserve its untold colours.
This is the love poem, more than new born blossom on the boarder of the northern lights, more than the enchanted bird song, more than sonnets of magic.
Rose, could we not walk through the peaks and pinnacles of the moors to pick radiant plums? Take to the Devon summits to face the rain and chatter with the wind ghosts?
Could we not then return to the lodge, having gathered dry wood and rest our feet.
This is the love poem, more than the sonnets of birds or the inferno of the temperate seas.
Can we not make our way to Egypt and whirl, plummeted with turtles, from side to side, through the navy loch? Lose each other for an instant only to be reunited with the touch of a hand. Could we not sleep the long balmy nights, cool in each others arms.
This is the love poem, more than the ocean’s epic romance or fame on the lips of men. This is the love poem, which you are the first to read, and the last if you desire to burn it and set it free like the spirit of a dove, smoking into unfinished time, on-going atmosphere. This is the poem that has been written for you. For Roses.
STUPID MAN
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