Save me from getting old
Your fingers forever a sacred chalice
To which my lifeline shall be caught
As I freely let
Unto the fingers that touch me so.
I shall not shy away
From this touch you lay upon
Skin so stretched as leaves turn gold
Save me from getting old.
Today I watched a vine unravel it’s spine
From around a savory leaf
It lightly lay it’s beating pulse
Upon a trembling leaf
And smiled as it moved up and down
Like a fox on the prowl
I watched the leaf flaunt it’s curve
And bend into the pulse
To which the vine
To curl it’s furthest tip
Which lingered long
About delectably exposed veins
Sliding down to the delicate joint
That held the leaf to the branch
As a suckling lifeline,
And plucked the leaf to devour it.
Today there is a sign,
A window of an opening
Dragging at my conscience.
I acknowledge it.
I sit cross-legged
To experience its frequencies
Reverberate my lifeline.
This lesson is wordless,
Perched upon low hanging ledges
Of spring’s naked birch trees.
I imagine smoke
Wafting its sacred essence.
And my peace and gratitude
Flows mingling with the wind,
Vibrating to wordless words
Whistling through my conscience.
Don’t purchase my love;
I want you to bleed.
I want you to lay down
And sacrifice everything,
A pure devotion
Of unrelenting desire.
A life long pursuit
Of fear and anger
And joy and jubilee
I want you to bleed.
And for me to feed
The ever increasing need
With my raw and carnal instinct,
That you shall become me.
And I will be your lifeline.
Strolls through the park now are filled with dead leaves
Dead leaves float down from shifting canopies
Deciduous trees slowly sway with mother earths soothing motion
Dead leaves blanket soiled paths laid through summer
A softening, deadening all sounds of scraping dirt
But shuffling along as I push forward
Dead leaves dance with discarded cones
Tossed away in haste during a squirrels preparation
Dead leaves share with me a full spectrum of browns
Reds, oranges, greens, purples, blacks
As they run the test of time separated from their lifeline
Dead leaves tell of turning seasons
Lazy summer indulging into autumns necessary storage
And clear nights turning into frosts morning
Dead leaves share with me the art of romance
Harmony in age
Holding hands with Mother Nature
As she guides the procession forward
I may have been sleeping when I wrote this
But I was told to hang my head and cry
I may have been aware of the anger ahead
But I was watching my back for a lifeline
I may have been worried about the future
When I asked you to cover my steps
I may have been dreaming of another place
When I asked you to marry me
But dear angel that floats on so high
Come down here a while and bless this guy
Perhaps the snakes and candles will entertain you neigh
Perhaps the passion now present will never die
I may have cried all day long
For a woman who had been gone so
I may have worn out the sweater of lust
To a song that had never played on
I may have bled, maybe