A Moment of Weakness …

“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.”
― Pablo Neruda

 * * * * *

To J.

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I need to feel that you are real,
you exist.
I want to face your mahogany eyes,
slow agony.
I desire to see you undress me,
to see me glow.
Breaths past trembling,
turning kisses into shadowless sounds.
I demand to know that
you can pull me in close.
I wish I could be able
to run to you.
I crave to shiver
listening to your heart.
And chase the wrinkles
in your smile,
even if it’s wrong,
I want skies in flamingo flames.

And that’s how it will be.
The nights filled
with waves,
passion and more waves,
will glitter together
with the falling on the marble
shirt buttons.
And the ghosts that
create time and distance,
they will asphyxiate
in the lonely blood of
their dark minds,
and I will run into you,
with eyes, hazel- like,
from the candle lights,
with summer on my skin,
with iridescent lips,
with fierce,
drunk with stars love,
to cover us both.

… only in my deep sleep.

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© 2013  Broken Sparkles

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Vivaldi’s wrathful violins

Be the rainbow in the storms of life. The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray.  ~Lord Byron

* * * * *
It’s that time again,
just before the streets and
the souls of walking people adopt
the crepuscular cover of the night
and the mass of watery atoms in the air,
engaged in a savage samba
with the ray- less sky
applauds the winds that
grow adventurous, almost chivalrous.
Leaves are spent under rain drops
and anxious whispers, and hope somehow
rises weary and little by little leaves.
*
I am left with bloodthirsty icons
of the four season
and in each of them, the sun bows
to Vivaldi’s wrathful violins.
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© 2013  Broken Sparkles
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There comes a time …

“That’s why Monday, when it sees me coming with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline, and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel, and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.” ~ Pablo Neruda, Walking Around

* * * * *

There comes a time …

There comes a time, I’m tired of stories-
feckless, empty, of daydreams without
blithe ends, sulfur- colored, collapsing,
supple under lachrymal gliding in a sea of ashes.

I’m in here, trapped and fatigue, inside a bygone maze
and the spice of brutally cold walls stops me pretending
that I believe in amity miracles and love flowers,
a lifetime collected in a crack of agony.

There comes a time, I’m tired of thinking,
my dark heart and my even darker silhouette,
they are just fallen rebels in the lost era of butterflies.

And it would be good if I could learn to fly again,
in the middle of the night, through medieval châteaux
or through roof tops of avant-garde skyscrapers.
But it will be all the same, because
it so happens that I’m tired of wearing a mask
and the mornings burn with moistureless creativity.

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Moistureless creativity

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© 2013  Broken Sparkles

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