The Approach of Night

 

death_and_woman_by_lente_scrua-d5r8vmi

It’s not a warm hand to hold or

 a mortal mans kiss I crave

I seek the deep unseen

the darkness

under my skin I have made a place where the blood and yearning can embrace

and I raise my arms wide and offer up into the night

my plea

my offer

to whoever

whatever 

may hear me and come

drawn by the beating life

the salt and fat and sweetness of me 

to fill that empty space 

I wait for the approach of the night

the cold intoxication of oblivion 

I long for icesharp lips against mine

and the spreading of the frost into the winedark river of my veins

take me as I wait willingly

a priestess of midnight with ardent heart chilled and quiescent

ready to abandon the light

take me

I am here…

©jayetomas2014 

*inspired by the artwork of Lente Scura *
 
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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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