Wednesday, September 04, 2013
the tchthonic.....
(i)
she is elfin - it is in her eyes,
the tourmaline tinged satyrs,
that mischievously shies
in numinous splendour; she peers
through the canvas of the night –
head to toe, covered in tenebrous delight
(ii)
Tender is the night,
tender the sighs, susurrations and gasps
of delight.
Passion is the moon,
passion the caress, the touch, the piety
of moonlight.
(iii)
lips turn cerise with the
passion of her words, the love
of her emotions.
and sussurations of desire
curdle the ridges of his
cochleate heart...
( such are the secrets lover's share )
(iv)
fingers unwind, the very same that
caressed when intertwined, mine in yours.
and as we part, the halting caresses relive
the painful moments of canorous, crooning,
warbled words. wishful thoughts...
the very words, your dainty fingers, sometime
before this sepulchral silence,
on my gnarled and mottled skin, wrote.
(v)
intransigents in this ‘relating’ to her –
stone-cold catacombs of her heart;
the tortuous maze that is her glance,
and a half-smile playing on lilac lips….
specious like his words of seduction.
**********
…and the story in her eyes.
recondite as eternity, ineluctable as fate;
a congeries of the unsaid -
then there is her smile….
(vi)
these quotidian phases of life,
these diurnal dimensions we dwell in.
this missing you, the elusive touch,
the feel of your untangled hair,
the smile, slow-spreading like sunlight
on melting snow, and the memory of cerise
lips, wet, eager....unreal.
(vii)
In a surreal tapestry of gossamer silk and sunbeams,
I have etched the beautiful contours of your face.
The somnolent eyes,
drooping as if a lotus-eater had sprayed the Sandman's opiate into them,
the juxtaposed limbs heavy-wrought and listless
....you are a dream;
you are the rainbow fantasy in speckled and gold-flaked dust,
shimmering on heaven's stairways
and bright-punctured like a lover's acid sighs on the firmament.
You are the elusive
an ever out-of-reach mirage - evanescence,
that quill-wielders speak in hushed awe-filled tones.
You are my fantasy,
my deliverance of sleepless nights
....and somehow, their reason too!!
(viii)
like a whisper chases its shadow,
around a domed gallery made of stone
we leap-frog from liaison to liaison, yet
in the end, as at the start - are left alone
(will you be my gallery, my whisper,
or will you just leave me lonesome?)
(ix)
it is your perception
that traps these ephemerons
into vials of permanence,
distils
the nectar of the flowers
(doomed to die like beautiful memories),
and stows them into
crystals of eternity.
such are the things you do,
and only you can do...
(x)
...and if you are a lyre,
i must be a troubadour.
the ashique in search of the perfect note.
that which rests in the strings of your heart......
.......waiting to be strummed
(xi)
no more my muse,
so perhaps that
you never were;
you are still my reason
to write, so maybe
that's all you ever were.
~ TWS
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