You exist in unnamed colours,
with which I dream of painting the midnight canvas
of your smokey eyelids, framed in inky symmetrical lines.
Sweeping curtains of deep wooden hues seen only in the
deepest of forests,
Secret springs, reaching and plunging deep into the earth like my heart into my throat
solemn orbs a visage of visceral vision
You never mind the way we don’t speak much,
but feel more connected each time.
As though our thoughts are tuned into 89.1FM
sequencing each frequency to each other
Wave and beam.
soundless compression’s and oscillations without touch.
I learned morse code for you
To see if the batting of your eyes was anything more,
than a wisp of dust
unlike the taps of my fingers upon your skin
inscribing Aramaic verses of enamoration.
to watch the way you laugh
stifling your snorts, between each half
of breath you let out to me, or so i seem
however it may be you leave me beam;
ing. with a galaxy in each eye and marimba in my veins
striking each high and low with spiraling expansive fury a lions mane
of prominance and providence to prove to this moment
a greeting, or passage, warm deltoids embrace dreaming of neverwinter nights
Star spangled eyes
and Red striped arms
Blue splotched guise
on a Saturdays charms
Pledge allegiance to this blanket
Pulled and stretched over tender skin to fake it
red rows of tended farms
white marks upraised admit
tally marks don’t cause alarms
One nation, under debt, hiding flaws, with ignorance, and lies for all
I have more xD …
I might post.
I revert to Tavros so easily!
when an artist wants to show you their art
or a writer wants you to read what they’ve written
it’s quite often an expression of trust
because a poem or a story or a painting are often things that come from the heart
little pieces of the artists themselves
and if they’re willing to share it with you
you should appreciate it
Take note. Because we’re typically NOT fishing for compliments on our work, contrary to popular belief.
It is not a question of pride or paragons,
But more a matter of preference.
I’ve walked and seen through Haze’s walls,
Twice over, if you’d expect it.
And sauntered down its toll-filled halls,
And window watched; eyes hectic.
Point A was strong, its hearth was bright.
Point B was soft, Keeper’s safe at night.
But influence was the toxin of choice,
So I drank until I lost my all voice.
It spilled and trickled down the vine,
Into the cup of Ms. Serpentine.
She licked the rim, then licked her lips,
Then gazed across, hands on her hips.
Within that moment the equinox bent,
But one was used to it, the other spent.
It spilled again, and trickled some more,
Then complications knocked on the door.
Sitting back, humbled and quiet,
Eyes like daggers, heart is ignited.
Silent and waiting,
The days they were dating?
Well, they never got over her.
But in the end it is not a question of pride or paragons,
Oh no -
It is more a matter of preference.
What Do You Say - Chris Buck
Read By Chris Buck
Ugh. I need to practice reading my work. I got nervous.
Click for full image-
Written off of this photo.