Fields of red poppies
Litter the landscape of my soul
Composed bleeding
Never a mess to be found
Yet the color gives voice to pain
To the wrenching hurt
Of being meticulously cut
A thousand silent times
Never noticed
My face ashen
As pretty poetry takes
My life blood
:
Copyright ©SirenSong1208
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Artwork by Moey
Waylaid by sentimental stirrings
as unintentional memories
are found folded in my pocket.
The faint scent of those yesterdays
clinging to the paper,
the creases telling a tale of yearning
and regard,
when words were the currency
of our affections
and the way we held each other close
through the night.
:
Copyright © SirenSong1208
All rights reserved
Photograph taken by SirenSong1208
A connection
Held together by strings
Caught on the splinters
Of the door he shut
Frayed and failing
The slow unraveling
Of a touch
Bloodless
But no less painful
:
Copyright ©SirenSong1208
All rights reserved
Photograph taken from Pinterest, unsourced
There is no taming the fate
That moves our pieces like chess
Calculating her moves
To keep us always in view of the other
Never touching
Until there is a sudden
And stealthy
Capture
:
Copyright © SirenSong1208
All rights reserved
Photograph taken from Pinterest, unsourced
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It is the tease
the slide of lace.
A moment of urgency
as fingers
as tongue
find the waiting ache
her thighs
wet and trembling with arousal
as his mouth moves
from knee
to thigh
to exactly where she needs him.
Bare to his gaze
his tongue hungry
he takes all she has to give
becoming the feast
that never ends.
:
Copyright ©SirenSong1208
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Photograph taken from Tumblr, unsourced
There is a quiet that I love,
when all I hear is the ticking of the clock
and the lush sounds of birds awakening.
I’m left to my own thoughts,
allowing them to run free,
to go where they need to go.
Unbound.
That’s the kind of quiet I love.
It’s what I crave for my soul’s peace.
But there is another kind of quiet,
where the silence weighs heavily upon me
with loneliness.
The kind of quiet that is not chosen.
but rather imposed,
when your very existence is not acknowledged.
When you are immersed in that kind of quiet,
it feels less like a gift to yourself
and more like a sentence to be served out.
:
Copyright © SirenSong1208
All rights reserved
Photograph taken from Pinterest, unsourced
As simple as the whisper of your breath
upon me
I softly sigh ‘yes’…
the only word that comes to mind
when your nearness crowds out
all semblance of composure
and surrender
is what I ache for
:
Copyright © SirenSong1208
All rights reserved
Photograph taken from Pinterest, unsourced
