THEO RAY Poems

You cannot touch my hand, nor my soul.
You cannot........because you will not.
You cannot touch my soul-it is a world alone,
that dwells not in stone.
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The chains, the early grave, the holy light of day.
Once sacred, once fed.....the sins of the father,
the lie sung by the troubadour's cry, the peasant
in the field-in strife with season's toil to abide,
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Shadow, in this silent hour-my soul in the field of dying flowers.
Seeking someones hand-vultures in the sky, this is the dying land,
this is where I stand.
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Don't listen to your neighbors,
crank up the music,
open all the windows;
who cares if they
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A soft white flower in the morn, covered by dew, sunlight wept upon it. Such a metaphor.....many a times I've passed....passing through this door, yes I've loved....loved before, captured by the racing heart, armour pierced by the light of love: so sharp. Loving again, lost in the valley, the palace afar, in the dark, looking like a crown, embroidered with stars, surrounded by a chorus of fireflies twitching with a spark.  Yes....I have loved before, and before that. Nothing left, but scars from the past, my soul calloused, in a world gone black, no light to last.....to last the long hours of solitude, cut by the thorns that cut through, must love always say: adieu. And when I see you I see but a dream, a dream of unity, of both you and I, embraced, one soul, one heart, one mind. Though you are not mine, I wish you were mine, in my arms, fevered by your kiss and fevered by your eyes, by the warmth of your breath, for you are composed in my heart, in a verse I write, in the violin of sonnets, of passion reborn, of life reborn, an ode to joy reborn, a rainbow casts its shine, with many colors worn.
In the violin of sonnets, of passion reborn,
the song of my heart, the heaven's light
adorn.....your beauty, a shooting star
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Let me write a poem about oblivion.
Let me write a poem of lust, debauchery,
and straying from the herd.
Let me write a poem about courtship,
...