#AmericanWriters
My man is Black Golden Amber Cha… Warm mouths of Brandy Fine Cautious sunlight on a patterned r… Coughing laughter, rocked on a whi… Graceful turns on woolen stilts S…
You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I’ll rise. Does my sassiness upset you?
A last love, proper in conclusion, should snip the wings forbidding further flight. But I, now,
We, unaccustomed to courage exiles from delight live coiled in shells of lonelines… until love leaves its high holy te… and comes into our sight
Curtains forcing their will against the wind, children sleep, exchanging dreams with seraphim. The city
We were entwined in red rings Of blood and loneliness before The first snows fell Before muddy rivers seeded clouds Above a virgin forest, and
When you come to me, unbidden, Beckoning me To long-ago rooms, Where memories lie. Offering me, as to a child, an att…
You drink a bitter draught. I sip the tears your eyes fight to… A cup of lees, of henbane steeped… Your breast is hot, Your anger black and cold,
Beloved, In what other lives or lands Have I known your lips Your Hands Your Laughter brave
When love is a shimmering curtain Before a door of chance That leads to a world in question Wherein the macabrous dance Of bones that rattle in silence
I keep on dying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,
Tears The crystal rags Viscous tatters Of a worn-through soul Moans
I keep on drying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,
One innocent spring your voice meant to me less than tires turning on a distant street. Your name, perhaps spoken,
Lying, thinking Last night How to find my soul a home Where water is not thirsty And bread loaf is not stone