My Little Cyclone Poem by jerome moore

My little cyclone,
my little storm.
It Is autumn, again.
Its you, again,
and you have layed an unencumbered burden on me
by not forgetting.
I cant hide it,
how you've been playing around my senses lately, no,
not like allergies.

I look up to the amputated clock, see its gloomy eyes and sing to myself, rememeber that melody?
I thought I could forget.
Like clockwork you come running your dress floating above your strong legs, like flowers. returning to our fallowed out fields.

But,

You are still out there in the cold,
in the darkness which waits at my door.
The pure fire that I had made, that morning when
I left you there sleeping, has covered up for warmth.

I dig callus hands into the moist soil where we had roots,
my veins sucking up nutrients to feed my weakened bones.
Satiated, I run, with wanderlust, back home
to catch the breath you feathered towards me, with hints of oh, pumpkin spices.
You are out there!
knowing we have lived all seasons in our one,
a whole day under the sun,
a whole lifetime of everlasting moments,
closer than those dying to escape,
we have been bored with words,
on levels above consciousness, beyond common love.

bring me your delicate hands,
Because, because just knowing you are out there:
exploring, making impresions, learning,,
and inspiring.

To know I had tought you (as you say)
the important things in life.
To know that I measure my steps to the day I rest
at your gate once more,
without ruminations on the time, and you,
can bury your hands with mine.
my little cyclone
believe me that will be one of my golden moments.
I cannot, my little storm, I cannot,
rebuild without your love.
I need your hands, your arms, your eyes.
I need your your fingers,
delicately rubbing my neck through my hair,
craddling my jaw, and resting upon my chest.
Grabbing my lower lip,
your tongue tracing along the dry cracked brim, allow me.
nursing my tattered feet (my feet that are bleeding) .
I hear the beasts in the alleys, they walk not far behind me, crying.
You always seem to destroy me and I am eternally grateful.
My little cyclone. my own little autumn.