Word rubble and the corpses within
I can no longer build temples from ruins
Let me whisper snow from your hair
massage the sun into your shoulders and back,
turn every clock in this flat to interlude
I care little that your past maybe skeletal
bones between lovers will always rattle
upon beach, where invitation is by name only
my will heart will bleed, before it pleads
Poetry passport will only travel me so far,
did I ever tell you
that I just wish to fuck you?
Within each night
would you dare to hold me?
Without the night
will teach me to love again?








Cleverly penned, Ghosteen. Great write my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian
Many thanks D.
I enjoyed the beginning trickles of affection.
Then the dam broke at the confession!
I grinned the whole time:)
Thanks for grin Adel. Appreciated
There’s a beautiful tension here –between ruin and tenderness, poetry and flesh. It’s as if love is both the wreck and the rebuilding, the prayer and the profanity. “Poetry passport will only travel me so far” might be one of the truest lines I’ve read about desire’s limits. Beautifully penned, Rob!
Many thanks Roma. Your interpretation of verse is so eloquent and elegant.