Often thoughts are all that counts, Sometimes words are - just - just - A minimal means of Daily communication. When all that is necessary is a thought, The vibration of human psychological activity, restricted for a lack of telepathy, confusing the vital with but only the uncalled for - objectives - objectives - Which are just simplified versions of hatred for ourselves.
Beneath the moon-drop eve he waits, Watching time drift past his brow, Whilst the owl twittered in the ferns, And the sparrows nestled in the twigs, And the cold wind wisps wild 'round the willows, T'wards the twisted taverns of town, So he waits past the sunset, Waiting for the angel of his hearts desire. He waits for the girl of god, With rich brown locks draped over Her petite and delicate face, With silken, glossy skin that's laid Perfectly over her womanly curves. Fine satin flows over her form, Crested gold sits upon her hair, Crowning her with the first woman's halo.
A blade, metallic and pointed, Strong and Powerful too, Leaves a mark, a scratch, A scar, memories proof. A flame, fiercest monster, Red, yellow, green and blue, Melting and burning, An ash pile left as remains. A bottle of little pills, Pink, white, and so potent, Helping and healing, Helping the hurt go away. A rope, fiber wound tight tough and flexible, Knotting and holding, Breathlessly available. A river, deep and dark, Flowing with currents of gold, And icy wasting waves. What a lung filler
A loving touch, From tender skin, And words as soft As petals. With golden hair, an affectionate smile, To match the Shining halo. Breath like ice, Yet warm with love, An angel he is, The angel loves, Not a gift But to shine Pearling whites, A smile of love Of loving delight
Love to live, some say. Live to love, say others. This word of power, Makes tender a thought, Makes grown boys: men. Be happy in love, Or love being happy, This word of power, Dearest to adoration, Gifted affection given, From one, to another.
Inscribe your kiss upon my skin, Rough - run your hands through mine, My new craving - your touch, your words, your lips, And your fingers trailing through my hair. Let me, gentle whisperer, with pleasure over run, As we both sigh and know that this is nothing but right, Tickled with your lips, allow me to be free.
The Poet Armistead 