Author Lara Wilson
I was the constellation you had spent your life
Raking the heavy, patterned sky for,
We both emitted the light
Needed to save one another,
I wanted to capture a moment of our time together,
Maybe a faint chuckle of yours,
Or a single teardrop that traced your cheek when
You said you must go home now
And I must seek a new adventure,
Holding my hand in your innocence as we chatter
Another spring day bright with the sun and youth
All we seem to care about is being together.
and stand agape,
and hair erect-
upon the nape
of time inside
this whiskey glass-
Descending
into Dragon Pass…
I have a soul
that must be sold-
I’m told it’s worth
the weight in gold,
alas,
I cannot get it back-
from voices on
this hellbound track…
spark of eyes!
You trod all cultures with your classic grace
Of posture, figure, profile
The breathy touch, so tentative,
The answering squeeze
All beams and tiptoes as we trod
Unspoken message:
“The dream’s come true”
The curtain nearly volunteered
To close itself.
My Breath, Your Cue
My Flesh created
The Flesh that’s You
Soft like a Petal,
Gentle as a Feather
Fresh as The Early
Morning Dew
In my Arms,
You Grew each Day
In Your Birth,
I was Born Anew
Winds of Change
Gently blew
Years melted,
Seasons flew
Darkening the sky
Stealing the light
Shaking the soul and body
With rambunctious bolts of searing energy.
Let the rain come
And let the thunder roar.
Let the wind take my breath
So that I may no longer speak your name.
I’m angry at my thoughts and all my self-doubt
I’m angry at the people who doubted me, too
But that’s a tiny flame, it can barely reach through
The tunnels and chasms I’ve built around me
But it’s burning, I feel it, and I’m hopeful you’ll see
It well overboard in a simple, brave act
And I would be free
And there’d be no regret
over sips of Chianti
in sunlight shadows
and he believes her
silver lined promises
He closes his eyes
wanting her words
to be true, yet he knew
she was only
being true to herself
long, grey spirals of dusk
skirr in.
The moon hangs
out of its socket,
dripping.
The lovers don´t touch,
final lies freeze their breath,
a brittle, vertical icicle.
Dedicated to: Aseel Kawash
Have I ever mentioned
The hot chocolate you invented?
Thick and a little sugary
Poured into the wrong cups
By the scatter of our weekly magazines
Have I ever told you
I’ve forgotten the orange-redness
Of my hair when I was younger?
I wish I’d chosen dye more wisely
Yet your drawings of me
Of the smile I attempted horribly
And the fiery, red curls
Made me feel less foolish
I always believed time would cease
At the blissful age of sixteen
