Array ( [sid] => 172326 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Which is the World [time] => 2012-05-03 02:15:37 [hometext] => [bodytext] => Which is the world? My mirror
Of love shaken in the sky,
Since the first dawn of birds
To the powerless voice,
And the interrupted child.

Alone in this spell will blow
The heart in the walking dark
Of reconstructing birth,
Which time and senses grow,
To the invasion of choice.

And who then, among myselves,
Bloomer of a late contagion,
Departing a cross’ love;
Will burn entirely
To ends of their opened wings?

In this confinement of yearns,
The memory stings like a joy,
And though it gathers love,
From the leaves of fallen years,
Its bliss remains a prayerpiece.

*

Who stands in my way? Love’s trade
Shoots uneatable pleasures
In the marveling dark
Of the growling belly,
Where desire is measured.

Through trade of silence I may
Provide from their salt my bread,
But only if tears mark
The burning in man’s praise,
Through the indefinite body.

It can not touch the ground,
Or celebrate the bright skin;
It emotes the wild stream,
Of lovers’ flesh beating
At night; but nor will it ring.

Only the bells of the maker.
Shall I choose or wake to drown
This other safe extreme,
I’ll die, and my mirror
Of fear turns to the breathing.
[comments] => 1 [counter] => 154 [topic] => 61 [informant] => Gladakkers [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => selfstruggles ) Your Poetry Dot Com - Which is the World


Which is the World
Date: Thursday, 3rd May 2012 @ 02:15:37 AM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry

Contributed By: Gladakkers
Which is the world? My mirror
Of love shaken in the sky,
Since the first dawn of birds
To the powerless voice,
And the interrupted child.

Alone in this spell will blow
The heart in the walking dark
Of reconstructing birth,
Which time and senses grow,
To the invasion of choice.

And who then, among myselves,
Bloomer of a late contagion,
Departing a cross’ love;
Will burn entirely
To ends of their opened wings?

In this confinement of yearns,
The memory stings like a joy,
And though it gathers love,
From the leaves of fallen years,
Its bliss remains a prayerpiece.

*

Who stands in my way? Love’s trade
Shoots uneatable pleasures
In the marveling dark
Of the growling belly,
Where desire is measured.

Through trade of silence I may
Provide from their salt my bread,
But only if tears mark
The burning in man’s praise,
Through the indefinite body.

It can not touch the ground,
Or celebrate the bright skin;
It emotes the wild stream,
Of lovers’ flesh beating
At night; but nor will it ring.

Only the bells of the maker.
Shall I choose or wake to drown
This other safe extreme,
I’ll die, and my mirror
Of fear turns to the breathing.


This poem is Copyright © Gladakkers


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