Rolling down the road before
Been there, done that, know the score
Crossed that bridge, then burned it down
Trapped myself in my hometown
Ghosts of me walk laughing by
Anger driven, cocaine high
I barely know the face of then
But I wear them as my diadem
Broken heart lay broken wide
Spilling love from what’s inside
Trains of childhood sing forlorn
Don’t chase those tracks. Don’t heed those horns.
The taste of your skin
is the richest flavor of sin
Let me drink in your dreams
Collapse at the seams
Let me dive into your spirit
Steadfast as your intimate
Abiding in your soul
your voice, whisper soft, and low
Let me read your skin like braille
breathing in you, then exhale
Give me your deepest release
Let me paint you, my masterpiece
in skies of orange and purple hue
Give to me the art of you
The turning of the Wheel is honored in her space
the breathing of the seasons accounted at her grace
With eyes the color of summer sky she observes the holy
Appreciating each season as its revealed so slowly
Her hair is the color of bonfires, of cider mills or pumpkin pies
When she laughs, I mean really laughs, it could make you cry
She sees the world in music, notes upon a page,
Not a moment passes by that she’s not fully engaged.
She can make a piano dance a jig or an organ sing to God
But she believes, somewhere inside, that she is somehow flawed.
When she gives the gift of her, in whichever way she does,
There is never any doubt in mind, that you are truly loved.
the literary asylum
If you want to be a hero well just follow me
Creativity conquers all!
A Gender Transition Journey
Light, Love, and Magic in the Hills of East Tennessee
The Art and Craft of Blogging
Examining the extraordinary and the mundane
AM Roselli's art & writing site
Musings on poetry, language, perception, numbers, food, and anything else that slips through the cracks.
(re)Living History, with occasional attempts at humor and the rare pot-luck subject. Sorry, it's BYOB. All I have is Hamm's.
