The Last Touch

 

My fem is an Indian that sits beside my summer of gold, and
softly she weeps for the children of red ochre, watching me
watch them as they die in my heart, whilst my fingers caress
the mournful gaps that slip through my hand of contravention.

She whisks my essence into wisps of gold, the virtual of my rising
is nigh high, still she holds me soft as she reaps folios of red, so
benevolently she weeps her opulence of gold, whilst I her maroon
am whisked into the frigid arms of the north, heaving her last sigh.

For to whom might we liberate the legends of once our risings?
To lastly imbue the lore of my walking suns, for these are the
chronicles of gold, of once a populace upon an euphoria that
furtively carved their myths on the tabloids with carved emblems.

She whisks my essence into wisps of gold, the virtual of my rising
is nigh high, still she holds me soft as she reaps folios of red, so
benevolently she weeps her opulence of gold, whilst I her maroon
am whisked into the frigid arms of the north, heaving her last sigh.

So I shall lay my head down upon the billows of her gray,
I yearn for her spirit to sing me along the snowy trails, always
needing her as the tall winds embrace me as it lays frigidness
through the floors of my dark forest heart, I shiver as I
lay me down for the last touch, her last touch of gold.

                        © Rena Scribe 2009

Reviews

[Kelley]

This was a great poem Rena !!! I really liked the lines....
" chronicles of gold, of once a populace upon an euphoria that
furtively carved their myths on the tabloids with carved emblems."
Keep up the great work and thanks for sharing.

Kelley