A prayer.

Yes thee, with

a name for

eternity to whom

I address this prayer,

I'm addicted to you

my goddess

in a religion called

live

in a practice called

love.

Whispering almost

lisping,  with trembling

hands,  folded

fingers outline

a shadowed picture.

Despite your absence

your shade covers

my thoughts in

a heated embrace.

Dry dead skin

sweats ice, lacking

your radiation.

While,

melting

reading your words,

trembling  

hearing your voice,

shaking

seeing your effigy

my body is already in

transition.

Being it

my last longing,

devoid

of any pleasure,  and

only to prove my devotion

to thee, with

a name for

eternity to whom

I addressed this prayer,

I'm begging for your child.

Untitled...

          ... yet.

Being the messenger of

my dreams

I, dutifully, reported 

to 

myself

at 

awakening

this 

morning...

as usual.

Once again...

last night

my fatigued mind

recorded, remaining hopes

and

leftover wishes,

and

some residuary longing

and

never ending craving.

It looks like training

my brains for better times,

reviving the lived past

while

estimating the uncertain future.

Till now...

today

made no difference.

Engulfed by the sheets.

sleep befalls me.

At dawn...

tomorrow

reality will inundate

a murky mind.

-

Still Life.

Read also the page About Still Life.

Shy as a

breeze a

caress flighty

touches skin.

A heart

pumps lust

flooding

sheets.

Shamming dizziness

molds a thigh

into an

unwanted shape.

A will

owns

an aim as

obsessive drilling.

It is the chemistry

between flesh

and bones

merging.

A hair,

dark, is left

on the cushion

after the fall.

One color red

splashes out of

the everlasting

sepia pubes'

violent beauty.

With one look

at, in, on, over,

up, under and

behind the bed

the versed veteran

value's the

Still Life.