Slumber

I heed to the rest
Of pillows under my head
Befallen my eyes, a passing
Wink with but a thousand more
To follow.

Paper Butterflies

Beneath the veins you have claimed, without my mark as to why you chose to learn the art of loneliness, is a choice I cannot conceive without a tear to shed. Far from the bed we once called our sanctuary is left with a dampened sheet, a dented pillow, a scent that is not new or exuberant. I miss it already. I leave it to you, now. Hopefully the coils will sooth the emptiness the life-size pillow cannot give. They are bronze, metal, rusty, no support to your back after a sleepless night-a night of disaster for which I bear no sorrow unto you my dearest beloved. You used me, cut open my skin and buried your twisted filth into my subdividing region that I can no longer feel the pain that leaks out over and over the cold pavement where you left me lusting after death. I made love with the eternal watchman who patiently waited for my arrival to the bed he made-a bed where I shall bleed out your stench. There are no words. The watchman was ever so gentle, like a dove's caressing wing, a paper butterfly. There are no words. No love, no secrets. No words, no you. No me.

My Canvas

Good evening to you all :)

With my first post, I leave one of my most favourite poems that I wrote in early 2007. Let me know what you think! Cheers.

~Green is prudent
And spring is as careful as
Winter’s long wait.
The hush of winter is dressed in white,
Forgive the dead blushing blue
On the whiteness that they wear.~