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the end of a circle

you cup me in the

cage of your hands, so

filled with authority that

sucks me dry

and

bleeds me empty.



frame less nights introduce me

to you again

as we trudge down a road that never ends

yet never begins

forsaken by a thousand dreams

we trudge down a road that never knew my name



nor my story.





i follow your fingers,

& trace your lines of

life and success

a palm reader's digestion

of your hundred lies

divided by me

equals one.



my fingers are frozen to

a certain extent, nonetheless cold,

i heat up my heart,

to let my blood flow



out.





the flash of a near lighting

reminds me of our photograph

in monochrome,

so long ago

when the rainbows appeared without rain anyway.



swinging on the other end of

life's see-saw,

i can never see your face

though i enjoy playing games



with you.

COMMENTS

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TheVampyreNico
04:19 Dec 07 2009

That was so very beautiful poem indeed. Bravo!

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Rose are black

Violets are violence

I'll tie you up to the rack

And gag you with my silence.

Wicca is a forest in the light of the silvery moon,

it is a glade, enhanced by the light of the fae,

it is a dew drop on the petals of a flower in bloom

and the softness of the winter snow upon the earth,

it is the light,

the shadow,

and all that lies between,

to be a witch is to be a healer,

a teacher,

and a protector of all things,

living and alive

COMMENTS

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TheVampyreNico
04:21 Dec 07 2009

very beautiful poem.

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