I have supped at forty pieces
of your broken beautiful soul,
And my eyes thirst for more.
A litany of anticipatory beats;
A salivary need for your words,
A hypnagogic state as I await.
I would have forty more,
Eighty more,
A thousand more,
My being would still crave you,
And would weep if you cease.
Because I know this is the bole,
And much left lay neath' the moor.
Some small amount of synchronicity, like flocking birds.
Me like some maritime thing, Every sentence you pen, the bait.
Generations separate us,
But it does feel like we have met before.
Mayhap it was long ago,
Before the energies, the atoms, the particles without names;
that make everything, divided.
YOU ARE READING
Blank Spaces
PoetryAn emotive journey through the empty places we visit but never want to see. The pain, the heartbreak, trying to see hope in places there may be none. And the secrets, and yes there are always secrets. Can you see them in this dark empty space? So it...
