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Gloria mundi
who bled less than the blade
but more than the dirt
we were mighty
and it is all dead news
Wiersze na temat: blade
Wiersze na temat „blade” na Poets.by.
Intemperate
like a blade carried in the teeth
my temper
not fit to go to bed with
if I hope to sleep
Antoinette
her own garden left her
to her red bed of velvet
the queen pretty as a horse
and full of time
the sight of a blade is sad
to the idle bread
smile√
With tears In her eyes she smiled in the mirror
You're a strong one, you fell but got up
Although right now
I don't know how much longer you can keep it up
And her smile dies down while she holds the blade to her wrist
Monkey See Monkey Do
I saw him
Blade to skin
Cutting hard and deep
He told me to go
To leave him alone
So I did
Not long after that he had attempted to kill himself
Because he was sad
So was I
I did the same
A nuse around my neck
But I was found
By my mother
Just as he was
Imaginary People: Woman
To hide your isolation, you become
Tame and loquacious, bowing to the men
Who bring you ornaments and poverties.
Your cryptic melancholy dwindles then,
Solved by the distant contrast of your words.
Your loneliness, with an amused relief,
Sits listening to your volubility
And idling with an enervated grief.
The play does not begin until you say
Your last "good-night," for you have only made
A swindled fantasy regain its parts.
Throughout the night you held an unseen blade
Upon your lap and trifled with its hilt,
And now you lift it with submissive dread.
Should you attack your loneliness and grief
Now that they are asleep? You shake your head.
The Supreme Courtesy
My man is like a good steel blade.
As subtle, strong, and finely made,
His power blue-white
As steely light.
O, he is cruel-quick enough!
But to my touch, as pleasant as fine stuff,
And from a wound of him I'd die,
Happy at such keen mastery.
Miscast I
I have whetted my brain until it is like a Damascus blade,
So keen that it nicks off the floating fringes of passers-by,
So sharp that the air would turn its edge
Were it to be twisted in flight.
Licking passions have bitten their arabesques into it,
And the mark of them lies, in and out,
Worm-like,
With the beauty of corroded copper patterning white steel.
My brain is curved like a scimitar,
And sighs at its cutting
Like a sickle mowing grass.
But of what use is all this to me!
I, who am set to crack stones
In a country lane!