A Pale Collection of Emptiness
One day I wish to know,
as the scars of devils do,
when your eyes, married to the auburn fox,
will remove their pantheon of petrified ghosts
and lay with me once again.
Lay with me again in the cloaked whisper of circumstance,
decorated in the buoyant chill of mist and
youthful catastrophe
that lingered over our breath
in the sparrow of nights,
in the timid shadow of the air.
A night carved in the handwriting of burning
exhales
drizzled in the forest
of speckled darkness,
as
the tear of electric saints
stained over our memories
Lay with me again in the frail midnight
behind the moon's pondering gaze
and the congregation of cypress trees,
humming the gospel of the night.
Your tender lips clasped to my shallow immensities
to collect every strained voice that collapsed between us.
It wasn't a moment, but a mythology we immersed our
tender gravity to bloom.
Yet the creation of our myriad of thoughts were vagrant
and ravishing.
Only the steam of empty desire
would be our witness.
Lay with me again in our forlorn temple,
pasted with the scars of a thought too true to be abandoned
Wilting in our cotton enigma,
one muses
if the past was meant to be certain.
You carried an empty look into me while playing
with my long, childish, hair
(I think I lost you the day I cut it all off)
because your past was your keeper
and you never let me know if the present could be your mad companion.
Did that moment wear a face?
Did our time have a mouth and a taste?
Lay with me again in our cavern of
nomadic prophecies.
As the endless novella of encounters
embellished the
ways we relinquished our
every shattered fury into
our carnal universe.
I knew for a moment that
I found you.
And in the silk garments that
cocooned our heated slumber
We looked into each other with a fragile innocence.
A haunted glance that forever bookmarked
within the simple opus
we simmered through our shallow, insipid nights
to unveil.
A night most men give lifetimes to discover
A night, in its echo, most men pray to forget.
Lay with me again, for the last time,
in the bruised veranda of our
quiet perfidy.
A hollow, desolate communion
invigorated by the silent thrusts of denial,
apathy became our passions,
our dullard complexion of one another.
It was the obsequy of our elation.
We awoke with a fever for
absence.
A rapid depletion of time.
With the open door of the empty morning
our past escaped us.
We became what we always were.
A simple piece of light.
Copyright © Bernhard Bruhnke | Year Posted 2015
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