nest

[oxymoron518]

Last sun before it rains. Shines heavy on the tired wind.
Snakes dance and bury their eyes into your sweet skin.
Open hand fills your breast until you disappear above him.
Holding on to the want, the desire for this to be real as you close your eyes and fade away.
Blank smile holds his grin as the rhythm begins again. Warm insect nests against your flower petals - honey dew.
Cavernous eggshell brittle as he breaks you alone. The whole of you harnessed to the wreck you believe so breathtaking.
Blowing the pieces apparent to the strange stream flooding your veins.
Wither and shake into the grasp you never knew to feel, being lost between words.
Come through your fingers, tasting on your lips, hiding the trigger from a room full of friends.
Charcoal smears his new face and the words you say you cant replace.

Its just like you to bend.

[Niamh]

is this poem one of your own?

[quasimodo1]

Speak up Oxymoron 518 and answer Niamh's question. This is a good piece of work. Or not. quasimodo1

[Pendragon]

Hello? Is there nobody out there who wants to have some commentary? Be lovely if you would answer if this were your work or no. Meanwhile while we await the local many minutes overdue; was the delay caused by a derailment of the ego, did the shattered hourglass' now uncontained contents cause a wrinkle in the linen of your world? Was the crower in the dawn turned into stone because it’s egg hatched into a Basilisk? Quasimodo tolled the bells, I know, I heard their voices, dripping candles must have stopped your ears…When will you answer or is the question one already too threadbare…

Pen
9/7/07

[quasimodo1]

To Pendragon: Sometimes we have to wait for slow recall, like the opposite of revele'. quasi

[oxymoron518]

it is mine... much like the rest of the prose strewn across my substandard apartment walls in black Sharpie.