from the silken green
of sleeping –
a night where stars are freed
swimming where your eyes
were met with mine
trading lace and story
for another
other time
witness to my pleading
come to me –
let my heart be broken
I won’t grieve
for lives between
tis only this –
reminding me of home
leave your box
of letters
just outside my door
teach me how to fly
let me fall
stay the night
stay til morning –
breathe my name aloud
as trade for one more kiss
a flannel dream
keep within your promise
heaven e’er you wake
beyond this night
of waiting –
come to me
. . .
tornadoday 
You are a terrific writer.
You are so kind. Thank you. ❤
ah, what is life …! the forever variety of words never able to fulfill feeling beneath our skin, and still always reaching
Thank you, Peter. Your comment reminded me of something I read once about those who create, regardless the medium. They create out of the ‘missing’. Were they not missing something critical to their heart, soul, being, they would not be able to create. It is in the lacking that they find words, paint, voice, answers. ❤
“The artist alone sees Spirits, but after he has told of their appearing to him, everybody sees them” … Goethe
Reblogged this on The Reluctant Poet.
❤
Always a joy and pleasure to read and share your posts with followers, My Dear! Have a great day!!
xoxox 😘💕🎁🌹