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Suprende' Dynamia
Will they tire of us, Dynamia,
of our love light; A comet
above this murked marble world.
As they sleep, in darkness, to dream
of a better life that eludes them,
while we are rampant under the stars.
Our skin speckled, by the glimmer
of the envious gods' eyes,
who are never sated
because they know no hunger
like within our mortal needs.
-Gods who never bleed
from a seeping heart.
Who cannot see the moon
as the last lily
in the sorrow bouquet
of an ended day
alone.
~
6:21 a.m.
Overnight, Mother Nature got intoxicated
on moon-shine, then stumbled into the morning
spilling the excess upon us.
I woke up dry-mouthed,
so I licked that milk-light
off of your shoulder
and added it to your lips.
-A tinge of salt?
From our night sweats.
Some seasoning, from reckless sprinkling;
Mother Nature gets hectic
when she drinks.
As you wake, now parched
demanding of me a kiss.
Of course, lover.
Anything you wish.
~
Will they write of us
when a love story is needed?
Will they rip up the dark tales
and repair the endings
with our own deep red momentous words?
Use us, as a spark,
when the night has no stars?
Ignite themselves into flames,
with the embers of our afterglow.
Because lover,
fire has the potential to spread
even when it's low.
The illumination of our union,
that shared light that we bask in;
Two torches, combining into a brilliance,
to get through the caverns of a dark night.
Shadows dodge upon and away from our faces,
as we reflect the antics of love.
It's the moon-shine, having its way with us.
What of the carry over, of our two awakenings;
Once for the mornings and again at night.
Where the dream-world waits, open
for us to enter with inspiration.
To give it imagery, for the vastness of scenery.
Allow the night owls to "Who?"
...
It is this, Dynamia.
It is us.
Too, this lust, these slithers of sweat
shining upon our spines.
As we seem to crack open our backs,
to allow night wings to lift us
from mortal slumber.
-We are offspring, after all,
of angel and demon.
We celebrate with our bodies, fervently,
the angst of what they once had.
~
The crescent moon acts as a talon,
slicing once, peering into our room.
Aghast, it pales in the whiteness of mock purity.
But it stares, squinted and side-eyed,
then takes an evening cloud into itself,
to blend into a swirling scene of you and I.
But it can't mimic the thrush of our flesh,
such heated reds belong to us.
As we mock the gods,
by acting like frantic animals.
The moon, that once blank screen,
repeats us, but only in black and white.
Its partner is a shy cloud,
shuffling, side to side.
Be like this, the moon shows to the world,
be like them.
-It means us.
I don't mind who sees,
but none will know our secret identities;
The intimate moments of you and me.
Filling pages, for our love story.
~
Jesus once made water into wine, yet
you do it for me all the time.
How you enter my rooms, and
a blessing precedes you
as a light .
My life knows no darkness now.
So, as you fly away
on that metal, selfish bird, today,
I will close these pages for now.
I will set the lantern to low.
Perhaps, even, I'll only eat bread
as life is again about sustainment.
Even as I close this book,
closing me
-Closing myself off to dilemmas
that encircle me,
I carry this as a tome, to ward off
life's misgivings.
I will open it, upon your return.
I will open you.
The moon will peer, and a talon or two
will shred doomed stories
that stained some days surrounding me.
Those of how I got by, with words,
until everything is recalled
in the pages of our eyes.
This page, the corner folded over,
it's like hair in my face.
Brush it aside, when you return
so we can see where we left off.
Our handfuls of embers;
Once words, kept our fire alive.
~~~
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