Ce sujet est actuellement indiqué comme "en sommeil"—le dernier message date de plus de 90 jours. Vous pouvez le réveiller en postant une réponse.
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.
The relationship is failing,
Who to blame?
Desperation, not passion
Drives them, though
It looks the same.
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
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
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.