Poetrymann

They say the last rose of summer is low born - a slow moving blossom that bears a crooked stem. Pluck it carefully, tender color to raise the dull dusk of your dress; flush it pale and perfect along your thighs. You move through the trees like pelerines at the fair, carrying it in your hand the adieu of petals already inscribed - never thinking to score the thorns or to leave it behind for the one who called you sweetheart.

Here's the bloody stain, burden of my shame. I breathe. Let me bear the strain, savior of my name. You leave. We have born the pain - righteous, strong and plain, we grieve. There is naught to gain in blessing or in bane. We seethe. I have known the blame, felt my senses fein. Believe bleeding in the rain, praying oer the slain, I cleave And know that I've lain twixt madness and sane.

Her minotaur bows low and dreams of a deft approach some way in without thorns some tiny gift of need, or perhaps an offering of rain left killing on the grass. She senses him, the bristle of jaw jarring the forest, and the long white of her arms teaching him the value of fear. But his eyes go blank at her glance, the snare of heat a bracelet at her wrist, and his warm flank telling her new myths are for bleeding.

A frosty rime has covered all; Blackened branches and ice enthrall. Autumn’s embers set alight, Grow and rage against the night. They drink the cold bottled blue, Winters bleak and breathless hue. A frosty rime has covered all Blackened branches and ice enthrall.

The night comes to life in rich inches, the slow roll of dark dropping down the sky in a wash of velvet ink. A smattering of stars, tiny fire flies, wink and close their eyes to the world, blazing with the last kiss of scarlet against the backdrop of a city lost in its own dreams. I can feel the metallic hum of life pulse through my bones, jolting me into an almost too keen awareness of every breath drawn around me. A million hearts surge with the electricity of unslaked need and want tonight, leaving me pinioned by their weight..breathless with desire. You are the chosen one this evening, beautiful boy, watched and followed for too many nig

A dangling weave of tangled threads Lies mangled on the loom. The scent of broom and bitter root Still permeates the gloom. A shadowed light was all her world, Wherein the mirror lies - The misted lake of Avalon, A dulcimer of sighs. And she would gaze on Camelot Within the mirror's glass A peerless portal to that world, Its future and its past. The halcyon days of Arthur's court In songs of troubadours, The knights and code of chivalry - A kingdom she adored. Weave and spin; spin and weave Watch the shuttle fly The days weave out; the days weave in And I will break the sky. She felt the waning years' restraint, The gloom