this is a love poem?

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this is a love poem?

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1cheznomore
Août 30, 2010, 9:28am



More violent than friends can hold,
I take my lover's hand. The heart
behind the eye lets loose a cry
we cannot understand: a part
of us is gone. My love and I
begin to see the wide-eyed virtue
of necessity, the cold
enduring climax of what's true.

More gently than our love can bear,
our folded hearts unbend. The wind
that blows our souls away moves
hotly in our hands. We find
ourselves too perfectly in love
to think, too much in love to want
more than a passion in the air,
to kill us quickly when we can't
find any comfort there.

2bookstopshere
Août 30, 2010, 9:32am

more of a lust poem I think

3bookstopshere
Jan 11, 2011, 9:54am

For Dennis and Sarah

The relationship is failing,
Who to blame?
Desperation, not passion
Drives them, though
It looks the same.

4chezwhen
Jan 11, 2011, 9:58am

for bitter or verse?

5bookstopshere
Jan 11, 2011, 9:59am

rather the inverse

6chezwhen
Jan 11, 2011, 10:00am

reverse?

7bookstopshere
Jan 11, 2011, 10:02am

obverse

8chezwhen
Jan 11, 2011, 10:02am

converse

9bookstopshere
Jan 11, 2011, 10:03am

perverse

10chezwhen
Jan 11, 2011, 10:04am

subvers(ive)

11bookstopshere
Jan 11, 2011, 10:05am

LMAO

12bookstopshere
Jan 11, 2011, 10:06am

suggest coffee quickly

13bookstopshere
Fév 11, 2011, 3:22pm

The Gentle and the Wild

The wildest conditions of love lay waste
to blood bumping through blue veins,
drive the whale-hued blood along,
like serpents, sliding quiet down the waves
of dreams.
Unattached and crying,
after the storm, torn and sorry,
remembering the promises made softly
on a wooden stair. There are
no promises, but lions of light,
and lilies, mapped in fury on a hill.

No angel inches down a rope
to hold your hand and all
the billowing skirts
of yesterday
are gone.

The sea inhales and has no pity,
swells and knots, leaving passion
like dry bells, buried in the sand.

Only the gentle and the wild survive,
to laugh, unweighted by the wind,
unencumbered by the fog. The tongue
and language, even, lie unused,
unnecessary beyond the ocean.

Vein to vein, the slow seas eyes
paralyze the tangled hair
of the child; its stare curls
and forms, like wax, around a voice.

Only the gentle and the wild survive
the delicate detonation of love,
the tangled touch.