Anthony Thalestris


House Of The Dandelions - Poem by Anthony Thalestris

She can't get out of bed first, she can't get past burning and crushing longing. She can't get out of my head first, she can't get past lying fevered from the quickening breath. She whispers of Alexandrias' blazing sun, companionways of ocean liners. Time unseen. Love undone.

She can't fathom yesterday's curse, fading possibilitys, footsteps from memory into blackening sun. She can't get out of her dress first. She can't stop the cold shadow of each day's scything end fall. She can't stop the soft spring rain. She can't hide in the darkness between the bedclothes.

And I can't remember when she came, like the morning star, like the moon over Zanzibar. She sits with her mess of pirate flag hair. Perfumed breasts, beeswax skin, aching soul within. In her eyes, the warmth of a thousand summers, the haze of a thousand Julys. On her lips, the place I used to kiss, every word and wish I miss.

She can't get out of heaven first. She can't get past forgetting and remembering two souls ghosted together in a midnight hue of naked prose and passion. She can't drink the wine from these eyes, but she will make tea in the sunrise, and she will dream me at the end of the world, of dragons and lullabies. And she will be the unbroken silence of the dawn, dripped in sex and flowers and butterflies.


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Poem Submitted: Saturday, August 21, 2010



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