Trompe l'oeil
This
bed of love
This
very pedestal of sin
Swirling
up to the temple
Of
dreams.
This
bed of love
What
is it made of?
Rugged
winds of passion
That
blow to and fro
Caught
in the mesh
The
struggle for power.
A
throbbing heart beneath
Pulsating
and jumping
Threatens
to stop.
This
bed of love
Gathers
wind yet
Stays
rooted like
A
bloodstained knife.
Scant
whispers drop
Like
pots and pans
In
a kitchen left to
The
mercy of cobwebs.
Endless
pathways form
Around
it above it
Unknown
machinations
Of
promises given taken
To
fulfill and to kill
This
bed of love
What
is it made of?
The
illusion remains.
Emotion provoking and complex...read it four times, line by line, word by word...each time a new meaning, a new understanding.
ReplyDeleteThis bed of lovemaking...
ReplyDeleteThe illusions remain.
But etched forever are my mind's memories
In mammaries nestled deep within
For ever and more.
very.. well what is the word.. lulling, maybe? Better still I should say comfortingly venomous. :)
ReplyDelete