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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Reader beware, I have never claimed to write beautiful poetry.

Submitted: November 09, 2014

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Submitted: November 09, 2014



I spoke with my hands and you, dear, your tongue,

So enchanting the sound, my, my, how you’ve sung

In a flurry of color, of wisdom of wonder of


The fluid air amid our lips, a center stage,

A wine growing sweeter with age.


Remember the time you took me in palm

So tender you held me, my heart-sea becalm

In a flurry of color, of passion of pleasure of


A tide of my want, soonly wither to rust,

A lonesome star now burnt to dust.


I took a beat and you, dear, on your knee,

So patient you waited for word from me

In a flurry of color, of silence of stillness of


My heart sewed shut lest your back turn away

A breath ensures just one more day


But were I to take each stitch and undo

“Hold fast this minute, my love, and lay waste to

This flurry of color, of tragedy in first degree


My heart of flames you’d carry away, for

your distance grows yet does not ebb. 


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