01-09-2013, 02:45 PM
(poieo means "I create" in Greek)
Warning: its long
Small Edit: fixed some typos thanks to Todd and Rowens
A rough touch
in its laugh.
Celestial—it assumes
dawn is a spiral
covered in atmosphere
wrapped in the warm
cold.
Closely,
too close
we have arrived—awake.
Morning is a bother
challenging air
pulling above—
breath.
We use to lean on this
tired—our back against the early wink.
Mocking the intentions,
the introductions,
the failures.
Struggling in this plight
engaged—we are
bare—obvious as the sun
in eternity's grin.
We remained whole
following
staying too close
against each other.
Weight of unraveling
are in the surfaces,
the spaces on the outside.
We couldn't court the world
with our ideas—illusions,
couldn't confront the exceptions.
Edged to size for this paper, safely borrowed
our greatest grounding
now our landing.
Our love was about
how much this paper remained blank.
Finally, a poem I created
for the last of us
Though in my conscience
still acting—sincerely
of our time
and feeling eternity moving
echoing from another space.
Neither syllables, rhyme
nor prose
can change an iris of a flower
nor the likeliness of an ornament sun setting.
It's just something to touch,
to move,
as I touch this entirely.
For introductions
intentions—failures,
I created its form
theatric at best
to then recognize and now present its purpose
a muse—I'll soon regret
for you my apology.
Warning: its long
Small Edit: fixed some typos thanks to Todd and Rowens
A rough touch
in its laugh.
Celestial—it assumes
dawn is a spiral
covered in atmosphere
wrapped in the warm
cold.
Closely,
too close
we have arrived—awake.
Morning is a bother
challenging air
pulling above—
breath.
We use to lean on this
tired—our back against the early wink.
Mocking the intentions,
the introductions,
the failures.
Struggling in this plight
engaged—we are
bare—obvious as the sun
in eternity's grin.
We remained whole
following
staying too close
against each other.
Weight of unraveling
are in the surfaces,
the spaces on the outside.
We couldn't court the world
with our ideas—illusions,
couldn't confront the exceptions.
Edged to size for this paper, safely borrowed
our greatest grounding
now our landing.
Our love was about
how much this paper remained blank.
Finally, a poem I created
for the last of us
Though in my conscience
still acting—sincerely
of our time
and feeling eternity moving
echoing from another space.
Neither syllables, rhyme
nor prose
can change an iris of a flower
nor the likeliness of an ornament sun setting.
It's just something to touch,
to move,
as I touch this entirely.
For introductions
intentions—failures,
I created its form
theatric at best
to then recognize and now present its purpose
a muse—I'll soon regret
for you my apology.