Raffael PonceValencia Poems

I walk through the domain of the ravenous wolf.
Constantly looking over my shoulders.
Treading like feathers in fire.
Touching nothing around me.
...

Searching the banks of recollection,
I find that I have nothing of value.
Ideas plague biblically and roam reigning,
but no true remembrance of happiness.
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In his hands sometimes lays the snow.
Often times he lets the flakes breathe upon the receiving warmth of his knuckles.
They lay there for a second or two,
They stare up into his eyes, and with a thankful silent nod; they melt away.
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Bile.
Slipping.
Toxic spewage racing slowly down my throat thick like honey.
Boiling in pools of sandy glass where eyes should be.
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Trace me.
That is all that is necessary.
You know everything to fill it in.
Every inkling of my being.
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Por tus ojos he visto la fuente de vida,
Y siempre beberé de ese mar,
Hasta que no queda tan siquiera una gota.
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Weary eyes and heavy looks.
Breath taken aback and told he's aging.
Vicarious youth, envying the fresh and spritely.
Neck turned by the wandering mind of the vagabond owner.
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Ground Level.
Model #A1181
Rated 16.5 Vdc Max., by a John Fischel.
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There was a family of ants.
Marching single file to the beat of the creamy rock.
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A wash of hopelessness and solemnity rains over him, a fresh-fallen layer of sickly darkened snow.
Lashes of fabric, heavy with disappointment pull towards feet, of which have been morphed together, bound by splitting, earth-shattering longing.
.
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