On the day, the end of want,
as said by others with wisdom coming,
trumpets will blare as drums beat drumming
You will see yourself, as you are,
of one sweet note by Gaia made,
and for whom with a lover's breath I played

On the day, the end of want,
no wasted, blackened place will burn,
to lessen the beat, or hide my breath
No Satan's power, or wizard's cast,
no evil hunger, nor thunderous blast,
will stop my song for the one Beloved

And on this day, the end of want,
your beauty's note is last revealed as
one sweet tenor of burnished timbre
You play with passion your forever song,
the beloved's cry of last devotion
and I sing my ever always song for the lost beloved



For my husband, Michael R.I.P



.
Broken Puppet

She can't handle the light
armed as she is with a broken elbow,
bloods in boil as oil melting
in the light's heat of peer-less regard

The good light, of god-ness made
can't be hoisted by one such
being
wretched
flopping
pooling bleeding

no

She can't handle the good light
Passion now, spoke the puppet poet,
is of broken limbs, twisted ankles
being
backwards bended knee
not meant for center stage

no

nor even the light of any

2009

.
arrghhh

I accidentally closed the tab and lost all the communities I was in the process of adding to my profile.

DAMNIT

I'm a hoplessly hapless twit.

.

Profile

alessiana

April 2009

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