there are many a winged midnights

There are many a winged midnights,waiting in a procrastination of a queue,
when the trembling in me up climbs
my spinal cord and spills the glue
between my senses and my youth,
aching for freedom,  for fresh start
while I translate it as the purest truth
before this body and soul depart.
Then my soul starts grieving,floating laments over corpse,watching my beloved leaving,leaving stains, rotten cherry drops.And I want to lick it's wounds as a faithful dog,drift away with spirit from the pain, contrivesome way to diffuse the deceiving fogand again be the one that survives.I promised someone once to ease the grief,vaporise the gloom and abjected verve,but only with great amount of trust, the belief,can we be bequeathed with what we deserve. Our lives burdens have interlocked themselvesso tightly, creating new lives, intercoursing marrow,sorted weight alphabetically, neatly on the shelveswhere our sealed eyes find place but too narrow.The orange bites stained this skin's guidditty
from parting that violently stalked these pounding moans.That only makes it impossible to breath from avidity,the smuggled ache through my benumbed limbs and bones.My beloved walks his roads with carnation wreathon his head, hiding him self under black of a cloakbewailing the passing dreams, the birth and their death,while he  left me bare on the pouring rain, soakwet with no shelter of words or raincoat of hugs,yet I can not leave and  can not calmly turnmy back to forethoughtful drifting of him.Too painful to swallow the thought of though the beverage shall never go over the brim.Yet, bent over memories  and lonely, endlessly soI once more beg him to warn me, or at least to knowhow I am here,  clayey,  dismantled  under rain,

exposing these parched lips to kiss his pain away.

Poetry by Bjanka
Read 770 times
Written on 2011-09-24 at 14:19

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