The Glass Pours Blood

1 Comments

The Glass Pours Blood

His eyes blaze gold.
My heart stutters
His fingers gently trace.
Leaving trails of fire in there wake
Down a warm ragged body.
My lips touch his.
A gentle sigh leaves his lips
His hand holds mine intertwined in endless knots
Our combined pulse rises and speeds to a march
Our candle ingnites into a fire that consumes everything  
Our lovely silhouette
Casts shadows in the night  
His eyes bleed colors as his breath becomes ragged
as my heart breaks
My hand now trembles.
Missing foreign contact
His cups were always empty.
I guess i just forgot that

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Teardrops commented on The Glass Pours Blood

12-09-2010

You grab the attention of the reader and bring them into the poem we are there with you Loved it Marie

Poetry is finer and more philosophical than history; for poetry expresses the universal, and history only the particular.

Aristotle (384 BC-322 BC) Greek philosopher.

BlakenLostAngel’s Poems (9)

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