Miniature Poetry Collection – 5 Poems – “Count the Raven’s Feathers” – Romanticism – 3/3/2021

Poem #1

“A Collection of Fine Dust”

Settle
In the stillness,
Oh, memories of an afternoon
With frail longing to dance
In the debris of her absence,
Tasted again.

Like loose rocks
Flown from the distant hurricane,
The teeming tornados,
With velvet to guide my hands
Across to her frozen waist,
Among this, heated haste.

Like tossed tears
Running from the storm in her mind,
The twisted sculptures
That bleed from stolen purity
In the wake of an afternoon’s luxury
To heal what is left of the moment.

I am here to gather
The garbs, riddled with strands,
Of tresses, brought with the wind.

To a face
Sick in the youth,
Bled with dust, marked as crude.

Poem #2

“A Curtain of your Hair”

Left to majesty’s
Marveling
Upon the endless arrangement
Of brittle tresses,
Within the burned curtains.

I swallowed the flavor
Blooming from your feverish face,
Tried and heavy
By dreams, filled with yearning.

Holding candles against
The same place
We both engulf the other
In safest warmth,
Watching you in the shallows.

Hollow and speared
With the barest flesh
To ornament
My opulence.

I can count teardrops,
Discovered upon eyes,
Loose arms,
Among a waiting mouth
For the kiss
That will nurture
Your flourishing Nature.

Poem #3

“Bleeding Past the Moonlight”

Silence
The weeping smile,
For you have saved sadness
For the distant mile
We have crossed, in the arms,
In the pains
Of the other.

Watch
As fates discover states,
Blinded by the watered-down scenery
Of open terrors and agony.

Such a face
Growing in the uncertain reflection,
With hands over
The diluted breasts,
As bandages upon
The fading stare,
Bleak with womanhood.

Know what will
Make the rain pour,
As stars surround
All idleness, in your curves,
Graceful in your resignation,
Leaving scenery crossed,
Burned by the blind.

Poem #4

“Sorrows and Sunlight”

Cut graves,
Waiting in open fields
For a moment, of what will matter
Of the same pleasant scent
To the tempestuous,
Pouring frown.

Wilting in your shadows,
As you were born
In every inkling, to drown
Within the faces
That crown
The one who found disgrace
More needed
Than the fate
To which you are bound.

Born with a lion’s smile,
Weeping in sunlight,
Though brave to the fate
Of being blind.
Wild-eyed, to be remorseful
In the state of your sleep.

Past from childish expression,
Waiting with dying eyes,
Keeping paths too thin
For the bare feet to walk,
When wickedness
Is to every sin.

Poem #5

“Everyone’s Butterfly”

Ends, that leave
Wide gaps for wings
To take flight,
Bleeding with the hope
That never fills the cup.

There is a moat that surrounds,
As spinning circles.
There is a sentence that stays lingering
On the edges of lips.
Washing our hands
In our own guilt,
While butterflies cross our eyelids,
Plainest in the dust of their wings.

Colors are even,
Wide in lens and receptacle,
Impatience to wait,
With emptiness from each exit,
Among the places to call home.

Smallest butterfly
Painted upon a door,
Where freedom collides
With the safest stray dog
That never truly resides
In the sickness of its own bite.

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