| 101 weeks |
[Aug. 25th, 2008|09:44 pm] |
We lay one morning together
On a giant pillow navy blue
Box fan finding hair strands
Lifting; perusing in ghostly fashion.
Our dreams separate
Yet our heat contained.
Your goading feet
Stealing cover from my loins
My mind, it stretched, and I felt it open
Calling out wordless incantations
From holy box-fan epic breezes
Behemoth thunderbirds soaring
Or coasting strong and pure
In the projected barometric vortex
Old warrior days now end gamed:
No need for necromancy any more.
Vile spirits lock you to this dream.
Shoo you through very green
But not so level doors.
,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,
Blue shade valleys
Cut, over night’s rest, randomly
Deep crevasses on white comforter
Sunrise streaks with simplicity:
Illuminating some ridges
Flooding deep down chasms
My eyes burnt witnessing such events.
_d.c.08_ |
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