Thursday, March 11, 2021

Hun

 his is the same caress

on glowing white velvety datura cups

the chalices to toast Selene

held high in midnight glory

his is the breath flowing from

the shadows within the dark

to the neck

across the cheek 

the emptying of heat

the vacancy of comfort

surrendered to silence

enveloped in clouds of the mind

that soak the heart in fright

in night

in deafening stillness 

when even crickets halt their violin legs

his are the unspoken words

in suspended thought

that call all attention to primeval utmost

to what seizes flight

and gives into his unheeded tongue




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