In Loving Memory
My love is fierce
but ever so gentle
like opposing forces
of gravity and lift
it attracts,
contracts, and repels
in equal amounts.
One unit of ignited energy
thrusts upon the others' strength
in an intimate moment
of weakness-
Yes, my love is fierce.
Reaching higher
each sky-step upward,
willing toward clouds
and rising upon the wind.
A delicate rage,
in outline and shape
intricate details take form,
conform-
To the purpose
of its great and awesome creator.
Then I wonder, all the time
if you will ever resurrect.
Rise from inside the gentle folds
of my savage heart?
Be Made Manifest in Flesh-
I beg of you.
I hear rhythms and riffs,
short and strong arrangements
in the rock garden below.
Deep drones of moans,
breaking down,
brown bass in busy streets
on the ridge,
by the apple leaves,
just hidden underneath
September's skin,
resting burnt-orange memories.
You.
Are.
There.
I see you,
in plush reds and pink tones
near the bloody heavens
but horizon lines,
cast shallow comfort
on broken hearts.
It's only on the exhale,
that darkened blues
can find some comfort.
When day,
slowly extinguishes life
and sun slips toward slumber.
I confess,
having solid grip in raven's claws.
The tug and pull downward,
on broken branches and crumbled ashes,
I want YOU.
Again...
- Tiny Poet, 2016
but ever so gentle
like opposing forces
of gravity and lift
it attracts,
contracts, and repels
in equal amounts.
One unit of ignited energy
thrusts upon the others' strength
in an intimate moment
of weakness-
Yes, my love is fierce.
Reaching higher
each sky-step upward,
willing toward clouds
and rising upon the wind.
A delicate rage,
in outline and shape
intricate details take form,
conform-
To the purpose
of its great and awesome creator.
Then I wonder, all the time
if you will ever resurrect.
Rise from inside the gentle folds
of my savage heart?
Be Made Manifest in Flesh-
I beg of you.
I hear rhythms and riffs,
short and strong arrangements
in the rock garden below.
Deep drones of moans,
breaking down,
brown bass in busy streets
on the ridge,
by the apple leaves,
just hidden underneath
September's skin,
resting burnt-orange memories.
You.
Are.
There.
I see you,
in plush reds and pink tones
near the bloody heavens
but horizon lines,
cast shallow comfort
on broken hearts.
It's only on the exhale,
that darkened blues
can find some comfort.
When day,
slowly extinguishes life
and sun slips toward slumber.
I confess,
having solid grip in raven's claws.
The tug and pull downward,
on broken branches and crumbled ashes,
I want YOU.
Again...
- Tiny Poet, 2016