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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required “Nightingale and Roses” the heart burst open like a canary cracks open its cage with a song listening to the nightingale with roses flying like a throatful soul escaping from somewhere deep within, soaring out the cavern measureless to man, that loaded chamber made of bone and skin, to perch itself for a time upon your velvet tongue, the notes escape now from the sleepy pillows of your lips, each word whispered invisible, pointless and unkissed a somersaulting orb slides out, and more follow, unheard, like beads for feeling around the waste strung in a Babel prayer, they are as such lifting effervescence like silver Pérignon cool and crisply unpacked, the sour with the sweet, addictive tort tarts, they pop and spread, an award of damages into the ether region to tickle the base of it all, for here is a well-known frontier - the judgeless review their unforgiving judges – peers do not appear; words like lemures glide, they never fall - spirited words summoned, without fail, always move effortlessly through resistant walls; first rung, the Oropharynx , as if it wants to speak - and still, I breathe you in like a rare intelligent possession, tripping along the crushed ultra violets, those twee lavender sentences paler in comparison, yet sacrosanct to poet monks, remain unblessed and wafer thin, the moist story as deep as an Ocean, salty scented sensated lifting mounting the moments we ride timeless hard into the dark night crystal winged unlost upon the fragmented Heraclitean; lips bestride such a beautiful tortured secret - I touch your sword with mine, as if to speak another language, by tongue, your book is marked and turning spoke, the cogs now move, a key transferred, through that searing ephemeral kiss, a contracted eternal assurance, your doorway opens, unlocking the folly that does keep it, the thing inside, that like Lazarus, does not sleepeth; Morpheus unstill, I breathe you back in I heard your poetic soul calling; singing its way through my blindness, I felt it, I vowed to keep it - its hidden frescoes, the deep burgundy insides of the story, the external walls of you brush-stroked pastel - a solid contradiction - like an abstract expressionist painting pointillistic, byzantine; I did not read it, transient, I melted through its ceiling. Il Duomo di Dio; pointillistic such are God and their demons like Ovid’s Fasti exiled, uncompleted Candide Diderot. ‘25 “How can you hide from what never goes away?” Heraclitus “A wound from a tongue is worse than a wound from a sword: for the latter affects only the body, the former the spirit.” Pythagoras "A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. His auditors are as men entranced by the melody of an unseen musician." Percy Bysshe Shelley
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