Arthur Flockwhimsy | + Follow Poet |
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The Games of Our Mouths Are But Forest Darkness.

Come to me with the Shadows of Doves and spilt papers.

The sharp dampness of well acquainted sheets, Swells,

Like God puffing Life and kisses up from the End of the Bed.

This room is crowded in Vanished Smiles.

I Want them Back.

I Want the sight of your Teeth biting down into your Wrists, 

To be There Forever.

I Want The Sounds that you Never imagined Would involuntarily 

Slip out of your Lips,

To Be memorized by these Walls

And Repeated to me. Over. 

And over.

…

Death is in the Folding of Sheets.

… 

The Idea that Happiness

Is Simply the Prayer 

that Tomorrow Never Comes.

…

I Don’t Want to Accept That.

But… 

Tomorrows been coming just the Same.

…

Where is my Measureless Night?

Time… cruel efficiency, Written out in Ashes….

How much of the darkness of my Soul, I Would Give,

To have you Back.


You had eyes 

That no one could look at without Dying.

But this After…

Has become a Never-After,

And somehow Life has stopped coming with the Breeze…

Now… there are no freshly Cut Lawns… no sky above…

No Green. No Blue.

Just You.

And You.

And You…


Into the Shelter of the Months I fly.

I Wanted the Impossible…

And Somehow… everything… has become It.


Even Breathing, now, Lifting my Voice to Speak, 

All of it, Is beyond Me.

You are out Of Reach

And Apparently 

So is Life.


From substance to substance, water to water,

Love to Love,

I Died into You.

And as much as I’d like to regret It. 

I Can’t.

That Is why 

You are Endless,

So Please… Gather me up 

As If you Were.





-thend-

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