Andrew David Dalby
thoughts upon the shore
The sun shimmers upon her gossamer skin,
to shine ever onward now and for evermore.
it glimmers with hints of radiant rippling;
giving an illusion of a starlight's lord.
This place is full of so much tender love,
As it lifts me upon such warm sensual sighs.
Which in their form hide from me nothing;
and also lack fear and loathings bitter flies.
Oh how I sense the longing waiting strain,
within the throbbing of her rising veins.
As the ever rolling constant tides of time;
so slowly thrust then just gently slide,
along the length of this her golden shoreline.
but oh how I fear his plump veined spear,
that thrusts into her tender damp sand.
For she heavily pierces down deep;
to bring upon me a cold brutal shudder,
which weaves in swirls as she sweeps,
into liquid crystalline whorls,
as wild yet soft as her so raven hair.
Yet, are these spears images of seem?
a basket of tangled half conceived dreams,
That are soon lost amid the flowing wash
that come from salt blister cracked fingers
from gnarled aged hands of the riven fleshed?
Or are these just gentle sublime waves
that so slowly stoke her tender beach,
with long yet subtle tender strokes,
other layers of a pure hidden reality
lost from us by lies of this sour time;
which slowly spread in weaving arcs
that are then like gossamer threads
so woven out, to then blissfully end
where ancient heaving worlds divide,
as they so nearly tenderly collide,
To free the soul from the ties
that are so near and so very long,
yet always fail in their way to bind
I stand by the water's edge,
and with heavy anticipation in my heart
I scream with triumph as I cry... then dive.
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
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