The road not taken

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The road not taken

He comes in my dreams sometimes,
with eyes matching the background of the sun,
but no, his eyes are not blue and the sun has lost
the amber reflections of the sand,
where we last walked hand by hand.

We used to play scrabble, piles of Arabic letters
that didn’t resemble any meaning in any dictionary
and he knew I was spelling ‘love’ completely wrong,
but he kept smiling, until the birds made
a nest out of the telephone wires.

And I wrote a letter, two, three,
and my words swayed the pink flares
of the Pyramids just before the dawn of summer.
I had a hope for a while, that he will stop by
and read about why we are apart now.

But years from now, I will meet a stranger,
somewhere on a cruise to Panama.
We both will have hearts of travelers
and stories to exchange over the death of waves
and the spell of nymphs.

And there will be a fairytale, fantasies about
flamingos in love and a boy who missed
the last bus from El-Minia to Giza,
because the road was never his to take,
neither mine to offer.

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"Boats off Cromer" by David F. Barker

Visit David Barker at francisbarkerart.com, wonderful poetry and amazing art!

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© 2012  Broken Sparkles

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White roses sleeping in champagne

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White roses sleeping in champagne

He sits by the window,
absorbing the reflections of midnight blue.
Inhaling the molecules of her perfume,
counting the raindrops that sculpture her whispers,
their lips rhyming with the silence.

He has this vision, almost sparkling,
how her curls chase
the naked beauty of his shoulders.
He holds her with the grip of a hunter,
letting her lean into the sands of his eyes.

He dishevels the rhythm of her heart,
fierce, with the touch of a windy moonlight,
just enough to show her the essence of love …

* * * * *

Inspired by “Apricot Standing in Red Wine” on Outlandos D’amour

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Image by Brian Mcguffog on http://free-photo.gatag.net/

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© 2011  Broken Sparkles

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Spartacus

God on the arena

I’m only a slave in the crowd of the arena,
another mortal creature watching you fight.

I follow the shadow of dead on your skin,
the anger upon your divine face,
the sword creeping in a dangerous dance,
but I won’t let a tear out,
like every scared soul on the tribune.

God on the arena,
I will have faith in you when the blood rains on the sand,
when the blades kill with glowing spikes.
I won’t close my eyes in prayer
when the sun reflects on your shield.

Instead,
I will rise to greet the final combat,
knowing you will come a victor and
I will be the one to offer you a honey wine,
a kiss that will erase the trace of blood,
the wounds from knives and enemies.

~*~*~*~

"Spartacus" by ladarkfemme on deviantart.com

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© 2011  Broken Sparkles

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