Buttered like toast
with words of love.
Soft and dripping,
you are filled,
satisfied,
I’m consumed again.
Small, Untitled Poem
Posted on April 1, 2012, in Writing Journal and tagged love, poetry. Bookmark the permalink. 5 Comments.
"Horror fiction upsets apple carts, burns old buildings, and stampedes the horses; it questions and yearns for answers, and it takes nothing for granted. It's not safe, and it probably rots your teeth, too. Horror fiction can be a guide through a nightmare world, entered freely and by the reader's own will. And since horror can be many, many things and go in many, many directions, that guided nightmare ride can shock, educate, illuminate, threaten, shriek, and whisper before it lets the readers loose." - Robert McCammon (Twilight Zone Magazine, Oct 1986)
Attribution? is that yours?
Silly me! Yes, It’s mine; a small, untitled poem.
Love is food consumed by the soul…consumation,like the heart beats for one kiss at a moment in time….
I love your work…
Aurora
Ah Aurora, you’re so right – love is the soul’s preferred sustenance. Thanks!
The only tribute I can think of to pay is two of my favourite lines from Lalleshwari (1320–1392), also known as Lalla. You can look her up on Wikipedia, of course. She was a mystic of the Kashmiri Shaivite sect, and at the same time, a Sufi saint. I recently read “Naked Song, by Laldyada, Lalla, Coleman Barks (Translator), 1992, Maypop Books, ISBN 0-9618916-4-5.” My two favorite lines from Naked Song are
“The mind is what sleeps. What recognizes itself as God is awake.”