Dreams of worlds which never were,
Idle fantasies which never are,
Bright new futures yet to be,
Haunting shades of memory.
Suspended pale droplet
Focusing attention
quickening breath.
From a silken mane
glistening, shining,
fanned out in an earthen halo
To soft peaks
gently directing the world,
framing the jewel for all to see.
A milky droplet rolls lazily
down sweeping curves,
Framed in gold
Frozen in time
An emblem of passion
A reminder of trust.
Do not call it ‘love’, my dear,
for we know it is not so.
Passion it may always be,
but passion comes and goes.
I care for you,
and you for me,
for that is who we are.
But do not call it love my dear,
for that goes much too far.
So take this gift,
and think of me,
so when we sleep tonight;
the love we made
shall never fade
in the soft moonlight.
Fireworks, on the Fourth of July
Every year, the birth of our nation is celebrated:
In barbeques and cookouts,
In parties and gatherings,
In professional sports and amateur war.
By day we feast and play in the sun,
By night we talk and watch false suns rise.
Time to watch fireworks
On the Fourth of July.
Friends and family
Old and new
Gather round the flames.
Games are played, and stories are told,
All in subtle order.
Clockwork soldiers long past,
drum an ethereal tattoo.
Pounding beats thump, thump, thumping
On the horizon.
War’s refrain rattles listener’s skulls,
Stirring withered moral fibres for one glorious night.
Thump, thump, thump go fireworks
On the Fourth of July.
But something else stirs this eternal night:
A friend’s return
The tugging of emotions long buried.
Smoldering lust and flickering affection
Once thought extinguished,
Now roar into life once more.
Time, however, has damped this flame
Keeping it contained
Before it could erupt.
There shall be no harsh words tonight,
No fireworks on the Fourth of July.
A glimmer,
A jiggle,
A squeal of glee,
And a shared memory.
Nothing happens
When friends are only friends,
And love is only temporary.
Always the nice guy,
Never her nice guy.
Late nights of talking,
Memories of impaired judgment
Produce hope that perhaps potential still lies within.
Drawing closer,
Bodices warming more than each other,
A furtive pet,
Quick moments,
And slow embraces
All combine to kindle hope
That one day there will be
Real fireworks
On the Fourth of July.
Another post in my "get caught up with prior posts" series, this one is also rather old. I'm not sure who this is about, or when I wrote it, but here it is for completeness.
On Twin Points
Curled in a corner,
Face locked in a contorted ricture.
A visage twisted by the twins.
The angel Lethe, whispering sweet blissful memories.
The demon Belial, spreading dark poisonous glimpses of the yet-to-come.
Pulling in opposite directions,
His thoughts never wavering:
His love, his illuminating light, his being.
With her, he always wants more.
Ecstatic, but never sated.
For he knows how illusory it is.
Afraid to gamble on what he has,
But always lusting for more.
Without her, he is lost.
Every thought is consumed within one:
Her.
Every action derived from a single goal:
Her.
Every need subsumed before one:
Her.
To forget and ignore the spectral tormentors is to lose her.
To give in and explain is to drive her away.
To keep from oblivion, he balances on a knife's edge.
Neither silent nor vocal, for to succumb to either is to banish her.
Emotions bottled and hidden, only to slowly seep out.
Until he can move he will stand,
Perched on twin knife points.
Slowly pierced without motion,
The abyss waits for any wasted motion.
He cannot stay put, but he must.
"Just a bit farther" he says.
Just a bit farther indeed.
