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The Desert RoseWith eyes the colour of the cloudless sky,
And hair like mighty dunes of sand,
She moves elusively and yet with such grace;
It is a dangerous sort of beauty.
Her eyes snap sharply into mine,
Whenever my gaze lingers a second too long.
Her stare traps mine own in place and so
I stay there frozen with fear... or is it awe?
I would love to tell myself
That such a flower is not meant for me,
But I would only be lying to myself
Because I love the thrill of the game.
I truly do admire her spirit,
Like the Great Pyramids it stands tall,
Against all odds,
Never bending an inch...
A fascination overwhelms me even now.
Can I even hope to keep up,
Or has the game already been won
By the Desert Rose?
Ocean-wide, Pocket-sizeShe is the perverse whispering of phobias
Shadowing each and every action I take
The capricious heat of the moment decisions
That I almost always come to regret
She is the gathering of tumultuous thunderstorms
Knowing she can bolt my world into Cimmerian
The tattooing of molten mantras on skin
That pool me from drowning in burns
She is a mouthful of psalms and lucid eulogies
Spreading her disease quicker than cancer
She is ocean-wide
She is pocket-size
I rebuke her- mountains and thread counts at a time
Broken Snowglobes.I've never known any seasons but winter.
And while the chill does splinter,
It's always been some kind of home.
Trapped inside this dome of snow and ice and Eskimos.
Let's all be cold to each other!
But still they say that you're the spring and I hope they're right.
Even though this sudden warmth is giving me quite a fright.
Have you ever known something so divine?
And yet strange colours it turns the sky.
Euphoria, ecstasy, insanity.
I am the Earth are you a tree?
La la la la la la la la.
Twirling in white dresses, I feel alive.
And yet I know that I have lost my mind.
Trying to scream from the blackened depths
Yet my joyous smile is not bereft.
I can only hope that I don't lose my dreams.
Is it really as good as it seems?
I've never seen this in men.
I kind of wish that I was cold again....
But still they say that you're the spring.
Some kind of wonderful feeling.
Have you ever known something so divine?
And yet strange colours you turn the sky.
Love, beauty, insanity.
I am dead are
on a summer day long ago,
your toes scribbled a couple
of words in the sand
soon, the tide had claimed
them, giving us back a blank
palimpsest (which we later
adorned with imprints of
each lonely night i remember
what had been written there -
but by dawn, i forget it again
draped in salty air, i watch you
sleep as my fingers graze your skin
but when i kiss the glistening
drops on your shoulder blades,
i cannot decide whether i am
tasting sea-water, or perspiration,
or molten snow
maybe only by loving the sea
we come to understand
how can so many layers of
delight and temperance interweave,
strain against each other,
binding us with flames
in the algae's algebra
VirusA virus lingers in my veins
Makes my nose itch from time to time
An unnoticed plague
I can't rid myself of
And as I try to fall asleep
You permeate my thoughts
I never know when it will hit
Coughing up dust throughout the night
But I would be lying
If I said it wasn't a pleasant itch
The dust of nostalgia
Flying through clouds and soaring over it all
Every need to scratch my nose
Wishing your loving hands
Could wipe the year old tears from my eyes
They always come back
You always come back
But I hold out my hand
And you are never there
I need to escape
This tragically beautiful sickness
This reoccurring illness
That rattles my bones
Tingling skin that craves your embrace
But insides hollow and lost
If I'm to be happy
And shrouded in dust
I have to
Snow White SyndromeI seem to have forgotten the sound of my own heartbeat
Splitting apart my limbs I've found the source of my insanity
Coiled around veins and arteries
Star dust and a lazy man’s drug
Has put me to sleep under fictitious pretenses
Of forbidden apples and two faced prince charming’s
The Man with a RoseHappy is he, the man with a rose.
Blooming deep red, with an ambient glow.
Loving is he, the man with a rose.
The aroma lifting him off his toes.
Excited is he, the man with a rose.
Giving it to his love, and his feelings, she knows.
Startled is he, the man with a rose.
Waking from a dream. He froze.
Bleak is he, the man with a rose.
Flower, six feet under, it goes.
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