Submissions by fallntarot
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
~*Less verbose than before, and worn smooth by the sands of time*~
EROTIC POEM
Published
11th Mar 2022 1:29am
11th Mar 2022 1:29am
Storm Over Waters
The moon peers in through
the looking glass, lighting our
tidal island. Its gaze shivers black
coverings in hypnotic, silk reflections.
Small ripples like an ocean's
surface roll and break and change
directions with her sly deliberation. We
float here, two figures resisting magnetic
pulls only inches apart.
All around us, cold waves lap salty skin, as
I do, and graze warm shapes; her purrs the
thunder of a coming storm, her fingernails
trace and conjure lightning. As night falls
deeper, eyes of blue ice dance...
the looking glass, lighting our
tidal island. Its gaze shivers black
coverings in hypnotic, silk reflections.
Small ripples like an ocean's
surface roll and break and change
directions with her sly deliberation. We
float here, two figures resisting magnetic
pulls only inches apart.
All around us, cold waves lap salty skin, as
I do, and graze warm shapes; her purrs the
thunder of a coming storm, her fingernails
trace and conjure lightning. As night falls
deeper, eyes of blue ice dance...
#love
#sex
#erotic
#sensual
#passion
500 reads
3 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
1st Mar 2022 4:39pm
1st Mar 2022 4:39pm
The Fields
Through hiraeth's lens, age's
wisdom - the grindstone of
responsibility - those late 90s
summers and spring's dew on the
schoolyard grass, was it all so
strenuous?
I have tattooed over the scraped
elbows, the tree sap, the cuts and
bruises. I wonder if I'm remembered.
I wonder if my ghost will sail
back to those fields after all is said and
done.
Back then, the winter meant snow, and
July's sun was just enough. Sticks were
whittled to swords. Trees were castles.
Hours were minutes, and the moon was an ...
wisdom - the grindstone of
responsibility - those late 90s
summers and spring's dew on the
schoolyard grass, was it all so
strenuous?
I have tattooed over the scraped
elbows, the tree sap, the cuts and
bruises. I wonder if I'm remembered.
I wonder if my ghost will sail
back to those fields after all is said and
done.
Back then, the winter meant snow, and
July's sun was just enough. Sticks were
whittled to swords. Trees were castles.
Hours were minutes, and the moon was an ...
#regret
#childhood
#memories
#aging
#nostalgia
372 reads
9 Comments
EROTIC POEM
Published
1st Mar 2022 9:53am
1st Mar 2022 9:53am
Embers
Your crawling is so
lithe; you hand-and-
knee over black sheets in
lace deeply, violently red, and
the metronome of your
sway pardons the late-night June
sweat. Fiery hazel gazes
into my cold, weathered
glare and strikes like a
match against stone. Your
bitten lip coaxes the embers into
kindling. But mounting hips and
sinuous whispers are how you
play with fire.
lithe; you hand-and-
knee over black sheets in
lace deeply, violently red, and
the metronome of your
sway pardons the late-night June
sweat. Fiery hazel gazes
into my cold, weathered
glare and strikes like a
match against stone. Your
bitten lip coaxes the embers into
kindling. But mounting hips and
sinuous whispers are how you
play with fire.
#lust
#erotic
#fire
#lover
#sensual
537 reads
7 Comments
EROTIC POEM
Published
28th Feb 2022 10:51pm
28th Feb 2022 10:51pm
Red
She says we all have our
vices. I sit bedside with my
head in my hands. Her
clothes are bright and
balled up on the carpet.
She says it's not the
end of the world. Her
hands work the tension in my
neck. Sometimes, I swear her
fingers wrap all the way
around.
She says you're not the
only one. We lie in the
dark, her hand sinking down. She
whispers to me; her tongue is a
serpent.
vices. I sit bedside with my
head in my hands. Her
clothes are bright and
balled up on the carpet.
She says it's not the
end of the world. Her
hands work the tension in my
neck. Sometimes, I swear her
fingers wrap all the way
around.
She says you're not the
only one. We lie in the
dark, her hand sinking down. She
whispers to me; her tongue is a
serpent.
#depression
#lust
#sex
#erotic
#addiction
627 reads
6 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
28th Feb 2022 10:16am
28th Feb 2022 10:16am
Blue
Cold neon, half lit
walls angled, tilting in.
Spaces made for
sleep, but are nowhere to be
found.
There is a joy in lying
here, blank and un-
assuming, knowing soon I must
permeate back into the out-
side: the real world.
It would not be truthful to say I
couldn't wait here forever,
my little blue shell, shuttered in, when
everything beyond this place is so
red.
walls angled, tilting in.
Spaces made for
sleep, but are nowhere to be
found.
There is a joy in lying
here, blank and un-
assuming, knowing soon I must
permeate back into the out-
side: the real world.
It would not be truthful to say I
couldn't wait here forever,
my little blue shell, shuttered in, when
everything beyond this place is so
red.
#loneliness
#home
#sleep
#myself
#SelfReflection
305 reads
2 Comments
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