Strange Skins

It is not I who wants you, nor longs to feel your skin
Of chamfered  silk with that siren ilk moaning, dizzy wailing spin
your tender throat sings like an evening where morning has never been
a moment later, lost in your foliage of forest buildings looking for bed
Am I misled to know no one may possess you who squeezes mottled palattes until they give
A penny for each and every pound of painting you steal the moments in which to live,
I feel concealed cores of molten heat lighting up bottles of elixir spilt
There is no law for you do only, as thou wilt
I too shall wilt to burn my sacrificial soul before an altar so wholly sacredly profane
Is it not I sweet muse breaking your fast, come to kneel beside you at our altar of pure Pain?
To test the webs you weave to tangle lines simulacrum limbs unbound
I gasp your lungs with airs written into rhymes you read, to know where you are found,
It is not I who speaks with words wanting to begin
Not I nor you who does confide so strangely akin,
Come, let us melt as one solvent drop upon Life's thirsty tongues
Rise to feel Sleep's warm envelopes embrace our letters cocooned in leaves of light
is it not you or I who seeks to become  some living ink with which to write
Encompass all we are read inner maps chart circles drawn on a plane
Where your tender throat sings like a jasmine lamp casting shadows in the rain
Is it not I bright muse whom you feel come to recount your deep heartbeat again.




Poetry by Chaucer Whethers The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 646 times
Written on 2014-01-25 at 19:47

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