I wrote a poem week before last, my first in ages. It's obvious I'm rusty. Grievously rusty...


It was not the melody.
In those times, the birdsong was secondary.
The plumage of the urgent warbler,
Black upon black upon black,
Splashed with Atlantic hues and the promise of scarlet devotion.

It was not the melody at that time,
Marked molten in place,
In that delightful delirium.
It was primal essence woven in
Undiscovered Celtic paths.

The knots that bound my destiny,
The silent eyes screaming an undeniable command,
“Love me, only me.
“Adore all that I am
“And sing my song, like lullabies in dreams.” (3-13-2014)
  • Current Location: home
  • Current Mood: irritated irritated
  • Current Music: birdsong, ironically
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I love this. I think your style has matured, rather than being rusty.
your poem
I like it. I know, when I write poetry, it hurts to cut even one word, yet there could be some culling done.
You are my inspiration.
Love you and this poem.
Re: your poem
hahaha, that is culled. Oh gads, I told you I was rusty. But it really needed saying at the time I wrote it. we'll work on it some more when the time is right.