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mourning kills me

Submitted by Seren on Mon, 2015-07-06 16:01

Your beauty beyond comprehension
bleeds from Azimuth to the stars
tender petals frozen in blue light
pique at the dawn in delight

As your fingers glide
smoothing air soft fingers
through colours poured to dye
and paint a Monet of illusion

Crossing my eyes on southern stars
receding from the night,
bereft, hopelessness my plight 
the loss again of my habitat 

The fondly brittle white petals
lay across my naked breasts
nipples harden at hot tongues end
as hands frame the ribs of Adam

I die at your fading shadows
sliding into a coughing sarcophagus
I reach into the sign of the cross
holding it within a chambered heart

again and again I am risen to mourn
again and again I grieve the passion
of Night, I am divest my position
and I am adrift in an illuminated lie

As days nails crease into my fresh
as her insistent tongue flickers life
coaxing me, pleasing me with pretties
finding I am pulled into her numbed

Slowly the hours cover me in sin
Slowly minutes forgive transgressions ,
but whispering fingers of dark flicker
waving evenings magnificent glory stains

The night has claimed my everything in pain
with evenings fall I resurrect again

Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Editing stage: 
Editing - draft

Comments

Sparrow

Mon, 2015-07-06 19:35

Sparrow's picture
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The feelings are there in suspension until such times they can once again be used in a real world.

There in the physical form,
all things can be blanketed in pain,
and the persistent loss
can be as forever mourning.

To reach out to that memory of light
Always reaching out,
but is there really a need
at this moment of now.

There in the distance a figure walks.
It is as if the future and now have combined,
Seeking each other out they will meet
Both are of the think which spans all things.

Look they play together,
in a new world that is made by you,
So this now you have painfully mourned
it is a transient thing.

There the two spirits join,
in the dance of the years,
Another now is seen and understood.
The source of all the things are yours anyway
Patience is a virtue, (Cliché)
though one would love to scream.

Just know that the mourning
is a temporary thing,
Da says so, and the children laugh again as they know it is for them to do.
Lovely write but a little morbid
Take care out there and know we are with you as usual, Yours Da, Anne and the children xxx

.
Give critique to help keep Neopoet great.
Unconditional love to you all.
"Learn to love yourself first"
Yours as always, Ian.T, Sparrow, and Yenti

Seren

Tue, 2015-07-07 14:10

Seren's picture

Yes a little sadness but never morbid this ones so dear to me I guess you could say in a way it is me ...

I'm so glad you got the time to read I really appreciate it as you know

I feel the need to write I will return in a little while and maybe ? Just maybe Ill have a poem in my pocket hahaha

Love always big hugs Jaughter xxx

“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” — W.B. Yeats

author comment

lovedly

Mon, 2015-07-06 19:57

lovedly's picture

all

Seren

Tue, 2015-07-07 14:10

Seren's picture

He did ? Didn't he...

J

“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” — W.B. Yeats

author comment

raj

Tue, 2015-07-07 12:54

Your words so vividly express the essence of your write....

much love and warm hugs..

raj (sublime_ocean)

Seren

Tue, 2015-07-07 14:12

Seren's picture

Thank you so much for the visit

Its always good to see a friendly face

Bug hugs and love xox J xox

“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” — W.B. Yeats

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