Love, Undefeated.

This time, last year, 
I'd been writing about love, 
As something that could only be, 
Spoken about in abstractions, 
A feeling which, I feared, 
I'd never again encounter, 
Blooming inside my barren heart. 

Love seemed to dwell in my poetry, 
Like a shadow that was just out of reach,
Words stained by the remains, 
Of what I ached for, 
And couldn't find. 

But now that I can breathe again, 
Feel the heart in my chest beat again, 
See my mouth open in laughter and kisses again ( Oh the kisses! ) ,
And notice her touch warm my blood, 
I know fortune has smiled once more, 
I have found what I thought I'd lost, 
I am in love once more.

The love that she has granted me, 
Makes me feel ageless and pure, 
I feel boundless when I look into her eyes,
Her love gives meaning to my life.

If You’d Only Ask

If you'd only ask me,
Say, " Tell me what you want? "
I'd let my tongue be set free,
I would show you what I need,
Speak of what I want. 

I lean in close,
To whisper,
Softly in your ear, 
Secrets that I've held in my heart,
The depths of my desire.

If you ask me what I want, 
I'll tell you, that I want you, 
That I long to breathe in, your skin,
Drink long and deep,
The scent that flows from every pore, 
Intoxicating. 

In a trance, a slow dance,
I'll undo the knots and the clasps,
To peel what covers you,
To reveal, the flesh that holds me,
Captive.

Enraptured, an eternity in time,
Where our bodies lay entwined,
When the world holds its breath,
And the earth stands still,
By the hand I take you, 
Lead you up to a breathless peak,
On that burning, shimmering hill.

Afterwards,
When the outside world,
Has started creeping back in,
And the light of the fading day,
Across the floor is spread thin, 
In my arms you shall lay.

And then, 
In that shadowy space,
We'll speak of our dreams, our lives,
The ideas we chase,
Bridge our wishes, shape our fates,
Of what we are to build, 
The legacy we'll create.

If only you'd ask,
I would tell you,
Everything that we need to know. 

An Offering To Death

Oftentimes, I've imagined myself sitting in a field,
Alone, in the middle of an empty expanse,
Away from spectators, and their prying glance,
I listen to the heavens in their silence, 
And think, is this where I shall finally yield?

But in that sanctuary, I fret in an uneasy peace,
Far in the distance, there is a growing gloom,
and I am defenseless in the face of impending doom.

Often, I've found myself in a field of grass alone,
While around gathers an awful storm,
So before I can rest, and take a breath,
I have to brace against the rising gale,
I must first stay and wait, to keep ruin at bay. 

There have also been times, 
When I've sat under the bright blue sky,
I've looked into that limitless depth and wondered,
A question that perhaps is as old as thought itself,
And has already been a million times pondered.

In the scale of the Earth, and immensity of space,
What import do our lives hold, what are they worth? 
How do we dance and sing, and write about our dreams,
In letters so bold,
When it will all be gone without a trace?

I've sat under the wide spread of the sky,
And felt that all of the art we make, the words we write,
Hold eternity inside them, a hope that our fleeting lives,
Though nothing at all, but a blink in an instant of time,
Reach out to become everything at once, 
That is wondrous in the universe,
And endure until long after our days have ended,
A reassurance to those who are to come after, 
That it all means something, 
That to be human is know of coming death, 
Yet to sing.

So I still go to sit in that empty field, 
Listen to the coming storm,
Look up to the skies, laughing I wield,
Words that I form, into a shield,
To death an offering of this verse I give.

A Monument of Victory

How does one write of people
they haven't met?
Lives, hundreds of  years before lived,
A thousand stories in the sounds,
of a hundred thousand steps.

The carved boulders now,
stand holding up the sky,
Even now they ring,
from clanging hammers, and chisels that clicked,
Through mortal designs, but eternal willed.

Twice was it passed,
from master to slave,
A tower of victory,
Kings and their graves.

But as now, even then,
Kingdoms, built from the bones,
of Gods and men, 
now are corpses themselves.

Ages go by, most tales untold,
Some sagas remain,
of human ambitions,
which never wane.
And do we ever change?