I have reached over the wall- And my eyes have seen the grape on the vine. My heart craves what my eyes have seen- that is my fall; The grape on the vine must be mine. Again, I look over the wall and I know the grief of Eve; I know the thoughts that made her thieve- I see the grape ripe - on the stem it dangles- And with my soul, my stricken heart wrangles. My eyes glint, my hands shake like a leaf in the breeze As the yearning within my heart finds no release. My sweet precious, there on the wilting vine- My precious there, over the fence, mine and only mine. And then the voice whispers; The fruit for which your heart hungers May bear the mark of another. Shall I then let go or put asunder? If I let go what my heart desires, Would not I die from its raging fires? Would I again see, would I again open my heart- Or would I forever be the haunted hart? I have heard how some have loved and lost; And some have bellied theirs into the dust. But, if Romeo love
Showing posts from November, 2011
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Daddy, I see you now as, breathless, you lie. Sorry, I have no tears to spare, I cannot cry For I remember. Daddy, yes, I remember When tears flowed, January to December. Now, death doth make you the lesser man For you move not now and I can I look at you now, into your frozen eyeballs Once, they blazed hotter than those of Sol's. And I remember the days, just like yesterday When their fires raged like coal in dry hay. Now they sit there like moistened stones, Eyes, that took the strength out of my bones. See your hands. Do they not like logs lie inert? Their veins run like a dry river bed in the desert. I remember when they swung with the strength of wine And did we not fall like the saw humbles the pine? See, your wife sits there. Her smile is less by a tooth, Stolen when your hands swung with ageless youth. Speak daddy, speak those words again Let your voice rumble like the rickety train. You speak not but I remember the time well
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Of all that man has found on earth, In all his search through hills and dales, While still he has the borrowed breath, One thing remains behind the veils. Is death a call to judgement's throne; A time to take the crown or flame, When for their deeds all souls atone? Or doth the grave hold soul and frame? Is death the end for king and knave; The one that's rich and he that's poor? Or there's a place beyond the grave? Surely, of that, no one is sure. So still, man asks when breaths doth cease: Full stop it is or ellipsis?