What are Years?
I asked you once, secretly –
my hands tangled within the fragments
of tissue paper.
They are not wanting to go,
I answered for you;  your eyes -
the pours of an unusual me -
a witness knowing the power
of sight; a touching distance
where love creates.
They say the need is more hungry
than the wait,
but with the way it cures itself,
I cannot compete. This is a place
of never knowing, of always
a fate as nothing yet;
strange thirsts for my ever
hurting heart, strange ambitions

◄ Winter Hour

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Marianne Louise Daniels

Wed 30th Jan 2013 09:38

Thank you for your comments, I will allow for the cryptic here... there are many different types of silences - some we own, some we don't.

Thank you Noetic-fret!!

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Sun 20th Jan 2013 00:39

Aye Marianne, you are very cryptic! Every time I read your works I produce all manner of themes from your words, from the dark and mysterious passions we keep locked inside to the hurt and anger of bereavement. Sometimes I am puzzled and know not how to interpret the poems. Nevertheless you are a brilliant writer who can tease and contort the most bland and basic of emotions to an excited state, and that, takes talent.

Nice one



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