You are my poetry..
You are my poetry
A Poem by Coyote Poetry
Just words.
You are my poetry
Forlorn love, treasured memories.
You used to read poetry to me by the candle light.
You were my heavenly voice, sweet songs when life became too hard.
Once we undressed with the lights on,
once we talks till 3 am,
once we never parted.
Love was us and you were love.
Once spoken words of love, now are silence.
Did I forget? Did we forget?
Once we wanted more,
once we were one in dreams.
Tonight I bought sweet red wine,
red roses and kind words.
I told her,
love need proof,
love need evident,
kind love need to be remembered.
I will stop the world for you,
find the place where love was right.
Please forgive me for being lost.
She smiled and she brought me close. She whispered,
I forgive you dear love,
I will forgive you for forgetting me if,
if you come home and eat supper with every night,
You lay in our bed without the thoughts of work and life.
if you write words on my skin and on paper again, about us.
I whispered to her.
You are my poetry, my muse,
my kindness and my warmth in a cold world.
Your will is my will.
I know now.
“My song are bitter when you are faraway.
I will a song for you.
I need you near,
I need you bare and nude,
I need you raw and I need you sweet.
I need your laughter, I need your song.
I need your words.
A world without you.
A gray world to see.”
Pretty lady smiled and whispered.
“Promises made, must be promise kept.
When you open closed doors once,
they can close quickly, if just the liar prayers.
Meaningless words can burn the heart and the soul.
I am here and you must return home.”
Dancing Coyote
Reblogged this on The Reluctant Poet.
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Thank you my friend.
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Beautiful poem. I read every word.
It’s true that we desire forgiveness for mistakes. We do not wish to die, both without love, and without forgiveness. I wrote on my blog, earlier today, “It is always that which is absent, not present, that makes us suffer the most.”
I also say that love is the combination of strength and weakness, both of perfection and imperfection. We are both stable and unstable, in love. Yet, without it, at all, we are just pieces. If you look upon the old man who is quiet, never speaks much, and stares constantly at the floor, you can question this, and ask yourself, “What has he lost?”
And, yes. Like proof of God, we desire proof of love. Proof for something that isn’t always present, though should never be completely absent.
The lonely man who turns to his doll, makes love to it. He tries out a lifeless figure, out of that loneliness… and he attempts to make absence into presence. Human love cannot be shoved under the rug. It is always contemplated, always remembered…
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