Samstag, 13. März 2010

The days - by Chris

The days come to me as breath to my lungs,
seeking rfuge, though refusing to stay...
a midnight lover brushing my body,
as dark clouds would passing a lonely moon,
screening paryers as secretaries would -
still the days come to me unappointed,
annointing me with its weight and pressure,
wach gesturing to be the one for me,
but I see pass their lust to own my soul...
Still do the days come, dressed by tempting suns,
a dime a dozen seeking a husband
in me, though my souldmate has been declared.
For her shall I wait to recieve true love,
refusing the moment, with no omens
open romances or second chances -
should I fail my maiden of circumstance...
if only...
her sisters wouldn`t crowd and overwhelm,
with their promises of second-hand love...
wandering in wonder of her ideal,
stolen sessions with her sweet secretions,
smilingin relief from the grief I feel...
prayers of freedom breathe a priceless breeze,
dates of unstressed doubt - no soul - selling fee...
tempting me and delivering distress,
dressed up dreams with beams of blinding sunlight,
caught in the glare bare with time ticking out
if only loneliness beat its own drum...
I`d sip the serenade as the days come.


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