Imbued Verses

By Henry Doubnez


Imbued Verses


Singing a song whose words

I do not know, but reflections

that are imbued to my soul

losing to my mind's projections.


The feeling is always the same,

starting with a stimulation.

A prospering combustion that

strikes the heart, never fading.


I stare at my verse, seeing your

name, never stopping my flame.

And they pray that we meet

thy sight, une rose ornée d’épines.


Don't want to live in a world

where my verses wither, like a flag furled

not to show, but to burn my spirit

for an isolation, now split.


Looking back now I realize all

that is written, an epilogue.

A plastic chapter dedicated

and a world that was never real.


Dressed like a mirror, hoping

that you notice not to shatter

but to prosper my heart's matter

and see the beauty you bring.


Surface is shattered, the shell is 

gone and freeing what is within

an empty tomb, yet une rose qui fleurit

and what a scent, cleansing my tomb.


If this is how a song ends,

whisper it but only from you

can I know the song is real

and feel my soul peal and heal.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

All Past Girls Now Sunny Meadows

Image
 All Past Girls Now Sunny Meadows Not much of a tale dare we speak of and also bitter the tongue that speaks of it now, a vile beast that looms. Long have I grown meadows that once sprinkled with ashes, that smell like love. Once banquet for eyes, now a husk. All the meadows that I grew, and dare I say, quite a few, ruptured a fragment of my soul leaving the shell of a man. All the girls that I loved smelled like sunny meadows. Reminiscent of that bloom fills the heart, and the heart that blooms. All the girls that I loved smelled like sunny meadows. Like a smell that shall never leave but alas, one you never preserve. All the girls that I loved smelled like sunny meadows. Stems made of passion to stem the blood that soaks the petals. All the girls that I loved once danced in my meadows. Often rainy, we, the wet peasant, devoured the gifted, the above. All the girls that I loved once laid their compassion to rest. Where the hollow meadow grasped soaked their souls with peace. All t...
Read more

The Sundial in the Garden

Image
 The Sundial in the Garden The Sundial in the Garden —after afternoons unwitnessed Beneath the cloisters' sighing shade, Where ivy grieves the stone, I stand where lovers softly laid Their secrets into bone. I, time’s obedient servant, stay— A brass throat kissed by sun— Yet no warm hand has turned my way, Nor touched the hours I run. Around me drift the springtime pairs, With hair like drifting flame; Their fingers write in midday airs What I could never name. A head upon a chest reclines, Their temples in duet; Their breath explores each other's spines— A pact the soul forgets. I mark each pulse. I hear the knee Brush softly against thigh. Their shadows curl around the tree As mine just points and dies. Their laughter, like a distant song, Spins circles in the air— Not unlike that endless wheel That winds the windmill’s stare. They trace the arches of the brow, The jawline's sacred bend. The lips are doors they enter now And I, outside, preten...
Read more