Post by Aish on Oct 2, 2015 6:56:48 GMT -5
v.3
Impossibly anchored in the folds of night
I lie to distract myself from anxiety:
I am poetry. I am art.
I spit oceans of stars,
echoes reflecting
against panes of beauty.
Alert to my raw child
curled into herself,
the soft lullabye
never changes.
It is the tide itself
and even the moon knows that inner truth,
endless lapping against
against
against
against...
masculine warmth
breathes rhythmically beside me
but the chords cannot strike deep enough
to fill my chasm.
Words, breath, ephemera:
the body of my homeless soul.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
v.2
Impossibly anchored in the folds of night
I lie to distract myself from anxiety:
I am poetry. I am art.
I spit oceans of stars,
echoes reflecting
against the panes of beauty.
Alert to the raw child
curled into herself,
the soft lullabye
never changes.
It is the tide itself
and even the moon knows that inner truth,
endless lapping against
against
against
against...
masculine warmth
breathes rhythmically beside me
but the chords cannot strike deep enough
to fill my chasm.
Words. Breath. Ephemera.
My soul is homeless in this body.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
v.1
Anchored in the folds of night
I lie to distract myself from
anxiety: I am poetry. I am art.
I spit oceans of stars, echoes
reflecting against the panes
of beauty.
Ever alert to the raw child
curled into herself
the soft lullabye
has never changed. It is the tide itself
and even the moon knows the truth in that
endless lapping against
against
against
against...
masculine warmth
breathes rhythmically beside me
but the chords cannot strike deep enough
to fill the chasm.
Words. Breath. Ephemera.
My soul is homeless in this body.
Impossibly anchored in the folds of night
I lie to distract myself from anxiety:
I am poetry. I am art.
I spit oceans of stars,
echoes reflecting
against panes of beauty.
Alert to my raw child
curled into herself,
the soft lullabye
never changes.
It is the tide itself
and even the moon knows that inner truth,
endless lapping against
against
against
against...
masculine warmth
breathes rhythmically beside me
but the chords cannot strike deep enough
to fill my chasm.
Words, breath, ephemera:
the body of my homeless soul.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
v.2
Impossibly anchored in the folds of night
I lie to distract myself from anxiety:
I am poetry. I am art.
I spit oceans of stars,
echoes reflecting
against the panes of beauty.
Alert to the raw child
curled into herself,
the soft lullabye
never changes.
It is the tide itself
and even the moon knows that inner truth,
endless lapping against
against
against
against...
masculine warmth
breathes rhythmically beside me
but the chords cannot strike deep enough
to fill my chasm.
Words. Breath. Ephemera.
My soul is homeless in this body.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
v.1
Anchored in the folds of night
I lie to distract myself from
anxiety: I am poetry. I am art.
I spit oceans of stars, echoes
reflecting against the panes
of beauty.
Ever alert to the raw child
curled into herself
the soft lullabye
has never changed. It is the tide itself
and even the moon knows the truth in that
endless lapping against
against
against
against...
masculine warmth
breathes rhythmically beside me
but the chords cannot strike deep enough
to fill the chasm.
Words. Breath. Ephemera.
My soul is homeless in this body.