You belong
to the quietness
of morning,
laying softly
on the wings
of the feathery wind,
stretching long
across fields
peppered with
geranium and hyacinth,
small bees
nuzzling your cheeks
like sweet,
buzzing cats,
with eyes that
drift through
thickets of
white fluffy cloud,
onto the
razor thin rays
of a woken sun,
you’re one
for the creeks
and one for
the rolling hills,
but my darling,
it’s during the war
with steel canons
pointed straight
at my heart
that I need you,
like a momentous rain,
in the chaos
of a firefight,
to hobble through
the sinking swamps
of anger
that pulse
right behind my brow,
when the world
seeps into my back,
you belong
to the quietness
of morning,
but I will
always beg of you
while I’m gripped
by the strong fist of night

07/09/2014

Posted on 07/09/2014
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