Free Verse # 335 (the sun of her love)

As the day rolls I think of you,
your violin body
flowing through my own,
a river weeping tunes
of sadness and exquisite joy,
pure poetry.

~

Like wounded water
her body flows

~

I entered her,
a tree taking root
in its aboriginal soil,
its leaves now puddles
of burning blood,
its fruits the harness
of the world’s fires.

~

Over her breasts,
between her thighs
squeezing the moon
into gossamer streams
of poetic sighs,
sodden verses invoking
the sun of her love.

~

In the middle of the night I wake
and call out your name,
my throat a river of burning salt
aching to be balmed
in the warmth of your kiss.

~

He was a city of fog
where poems
like wounded birds
came in to die

~

Her sensuality she carries
like a mane of fire,
the roar of its flames
licking earth and sky,
harnessing all poems
to hang them in its fur
as brilliant stars.

~

Carnelian flame…
her lips staining
the silence of my heart

~

As his tongue
parted her pink petals
her back arched
and her lips sighed
like a sea swallowing the sun
to become the vapour
of eternity

~

She pulled him
against her neck
and the perfume
of her skin and hair
engulfed him,
in his breath
the spray of a sea
older than time itself.

~

I burn for her in a way fire never can.

~

My heart
a quiet corner
where a rose
teeming with your scent
blossoms and grows

~

At her touch
my bruises become
puddles of sky and water
where dawn and blue gardens
blossom and thrive

~

The candle’s flame
gathers my blood
into a nest of ache
fervently waiting
for her blood
to join my own

~

Autumn birds,
their solitary songs
playing in the woods
call us back
into a forgotten intimacy,
a language without words,
a speech of inner vibrancy.

~

Silence hovered about him
like an ashen, gray cloud,
and the hills leading into his world
were shadowy and steep,
clad in rumor and secrecy.

~

Dans ses cheveux
mon souffle
un oiseau étoilé

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