hanging by my heels from steel
I wish black ceiling higher
but those eyes,
courting briefest glimpse,
do not matter any more
than fear or suicidal impulse
to let go right now,
lose grip and watch finale
glitter play the crowd.
and so your eyes, crying in
the rhythm of each fall,
see everything.
One Comment
A love poem, a beautifully made image/metaphor and such soft precise rhythms and sounds. Everytime you post a poem, it is a gem, Shell.
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you’ve made me really happy Paul!! it IS a love poem though it didn’t seem to reveal such to its intended *humph (but then he’s full of cold and not firing on his usual zillion pistons) … was just about to incinerate it when i read what you said about it … thank youthankyouthankyou!!
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