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you in white

Whatever cities might be brought down
I will always bring you poems
And the fruit of fig tress I pass by
Strangers in your bed
Excluded by our grief
Listening to sleep whispering
Will they hear passion
Beautifully explained
And weep for they cannot kiss you distant face

Lovers of my beloved
My words put on her lips
Wearing her body like a rare shawl
Fruit sits in a pyramid on the window sill
Songs flutter against the disappearing wall
The sky above the city is washed in the fire
Of burning Lebanese cedar and gold
In smoky filigree cages
Peacocks fret
The cages do not hold
In the flames man and animal perish
The peacock lies beneath
The melting throne

Is it the king who lies beside you
Listening to my songs?
Is it Solomon or David or strutting Charlemagne?
Is that his crown in your bag by the bed?
When we meet again
You all in white
I smell the stargazer lily
When we meet
You awaken
And are tired of this dream
Turn toward the sad eyed man
He remained beside you
Through the night
If he says he loves you
What will you reply

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

Comments

atorn, there's so many good lines here, but i honestly feel it needs some tightning up.I will certainly be watching this poem develope. A heartfelt welcome to Neopoet. Regards Roscoe..

Roscoe Llane,

Religion will rip your faith off, and return
for the mask of disbelief that's left.

My initial response upon reading was that this could be fine tuned, trimmed down a bit and still maintain its power. The problem is, many of these lines are so rhythmically and visually beautiful, I can't say I would part with many them. It's a cornucopia of remembered love and regret and the dying ember that maybe someday forces sagrada could lead you back to each other. The answer is a question with no reply. Beautiful work.

Ron
Blue Demon77

Blue Demon77

"What I want is to be what I was before the knife,
before the brooch pin, before the salve, fixed me in this parenthesis:
Horses fluent in the wind. A place, a time gone out of mind."

The Eye Mote-Sylvia Plath

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