Little wing

Hold me in your heart –
And lift me unto the boughs of heaven.
Where I am embraced by the heights of compassion
as there is no place left for me to fall
but the refuge of your
- Arms.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

The man who would be king

That they sing accolades before thy flesh is cold -
I mourn only the man thou could hath been, not the man thou were.
Find thy peace in the knowledge that all men are equal
in the eyes of God
for I call no man martyr whom hast not suffered
- For my soul.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Aphrodite

You contemptuous -
Vain self-serving deceitfully decadent
two-faced cock teasing slut.
Who died and made you goddess?
I want my keys back
- Bitch.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2005

Reincarnate

As I return to the womb –
Forged by suffering, tempered by humility
and so I seek the strength of compassion in your love.
Would you to hold me as I dream of death
might I be born again in
- Your arms.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Love’s condition

As we love most what we fear to lose -
Thus love is for the moment and that is all it knows.
Love is not material. Love is not conditional. Love cannot exist
where fear does not thrive, even more so to realize
that what once we had loved the most
- Loves us no more.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Conclusions

Could that I only have known -
I would have held you longer, loved you stronger
might then that you would not have slipped from my embrace.
Thus may our last kiss be as long as the goodbye
for it shall never be over until
- I'm over you.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Salvation

As you did pray for me –
Then so I have been absolved by your blessings
Even said, my sins are not all omittable
for I have always only been an imperfect servant
Yet my soul is revitalized by the trust
in the truth you believed
- In me.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Hope

Deceitful expectation –
Have that you betrayed my faith by manipulating my trust
all while you prolong the torment of my heart.
I simply sought to find love through truth, live through integrity
and accept loss with a grace of humility.
What now is my reward except that the only promise
which lies within probability
- Is death.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Late for the sky

As I never intended to be -
Yet as I was born I shall die - Awakened unto conscious.
And there will be no fear, nor pain, nor suffering
nor the loneliness that resides in my heart.
Thus I cross into Elysium’s fields for I am without regret
for I know there could never be enough heaven
to hold all the love I left
- Behind.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Incubus

Such are the remains of her day
that she sits before her vanity contemplating reflection;
for the mirror is the conjecture of her life.
Yet as her mind is filled with the warmth of wine and ambiguity;
dare she assume the responsibility
- Of her regrets.

Her eyes glisten with candle light
imagining a lover’s fingers combing through her hair;
that she lays her cheek lovingly against the illusion of its warmth.
Not yet the rose withered might she still be plucked,
the wine casts its spell over the weather
- Of her age.

Closing the doors of her reality
she throws open the windows of imagination.
Thus playing out the possibilities of passion in her mind
that she mimic’s intimate conversation with her erroneous company.
When a voice gently touches her shoulder bare
- “My precious.”

….

Might it be the evening’s breeze
that it gently parts the length of her hair soft.
Falling so tenderly down the nakedness of her back smoothly,
maneuvering beneath the undercarriage of her ribs
and yet not before cupping the firmness of her breast’s arousal
- To rest upon hip.

Her nipples purl with awakening
as her heart skips with a kind regard to the sensual sensation.
That it is merely the leniency of her anticipation
inciting her to lay her head back in self sacrificing vulnerability.
If only to rest her cheek against what may be
- An evening’s breeze.

Bearing no more of this fantasy
she pirouettes anxiously upon cushion with an exalted expectation
only to address the dancing remorse of her own shadow.
White silken lace dances and spins wildly about an opened window.
She sulks to the sill and closes the sash harshly
- Desire turns to despair.

…

So is her bed cold comfort
yet she sinks into its soft asylum as the candlelight flickers and fails.
Moonlight fills the room with its gentle ambiance
as she lets the wine warm her heart with the illusion of its intimacy;
reminiscing to her self “I will always love you.”
- As if she mattered.

The twilight her carousel
that she pulls the satin of her sheets up around her shoulders
and watches her dreams spin upon the ceiling
That clinging tightly to the faithfulness of her pillow
she presses her cheek delicately into the familiarity of its coolness
- Seeking security.

Shadows gather quietly
as the hot wax drowns out the last of her candles flame.
Thus she slips across the threshold of sleeps dark and silent gate;
yet conscious of another presence in the darkness,
she waves it off as the whispering vanity of loneliness in her ear
- “My precious.”

…

The fickleness of dreams -
surrealistic stepping stones of our most vaunted desires
might we become kings or queens or lay with unrequitable lovers.
An ability to unravel the mysteries of our deepest secrets
as well as keys that unlock the doors of our
- Darkest fears.

Such is her hearts intent
that she surrenders to the pleasures of her own self appreciation
and succumbs to the warmth of an imaginary lover.
The impassioned heat of his whisper moving along her shoulder
carelessly confiding wanton secrets unto her ear
- Susceptible.

She writhes in delusion
as hands gently defy the sanctity of her sheets.
Exploring the naked continent of her porcelain flesh excitable,
she shivers with the fever of her anticipation
as the whisper discovers the scent and secret of her garden
- “My precious…”

…

Tending her own garden
she parts thighs reverently and opens the petals of her flower
a like any blossom which would wish to be plucked,
allowing the whisper to browse the benevolence of its bouquet
as she mouths the words silently to her self
- “My precious.”

Whisper becomes wind
stirring wild the waves upon her shore
that her orchid glistens with the dew of stimulation,
as her leniency of his illicit touch warms a sensual apprehension.
An elation of paroxysmal exhilaration unfelt in years.
- She raises her chalice.

“Drink of me” she insists
as she tosses her cautionary inhibitions to the wind.
and wrapping her thighs firmly around the shadowy lover
she graciously presses the wine of her fruit generously into his cup.
Her needs being more important than her demands
- She persists “Take me.”

…

Passion is fueled by fire
commencing with the selfless spark of an intimacy’s touch
and then fanning that flame into a bonfire of vanity.
Thus the price of passion is found in the recklessness of rapture,
yet favoring the cost of its consequence that we
- Worthy the pain.

Song becomes symphony
then so does symphony become cacophony
as she feels the full weight of his body upon her now.
The inflexibility of excitement pressing against her inner thigh
she throws open the flood gates of heaven
- Inviting the deluge.

The wind turns tempest.
She lifts her hips to greet his unbridled thrusts;
bodies lathering of sweet scented sweat and sexual insatiability
she is at the precipice of her sexualities closure.
Yet teetering on brink of ecstasy, she knows not whether
- To jump or fall.

…

The event of her horizon.
She desperately tries to hold on to the sensation
forbidding this precious moment of bliss to slip through her fingers.
Yet with every breath she takes, each beat of her heart
she cannot help but submit to the delicacy
- Of disaster

Eyes roll with possession.
Trembling with the adrenaline rushing through her veins
She burrows her face deep into the shadow of his shoulder hard.
Thus biting sharply into the apparition’s flesh
seeking atonement for the release of her sensualistic sin.
- “Hold me” she cries.

Locking legs around him
she rakes her fingernails down his back and provocatively digs in
preparing her self for his full and final mount.
Resulting in the heat of his eruption deep within her womb;
her eyes well with tears as there is nothing left to be had except
- Death and distance.

…

Collapsing into faithless arms
a shadow scurries wickedly along the wallboard avoiding the light.
“Stay.” She pleads. "Was our passion not in vain?”
The impish silhouette scampers past the moonlit window;
then mischievously making its way alongside the length of her bed
peers inquisitively at her from its distance
- “My precious?”

“Your precious.” She submits.
The gnomish figure scales the footboard of the bed
where it sits curiously studying the afterglow in her porcelain cheeks.
She reaches out to the shadowy figure and softly implores,
“Come to me, nay that I know the compassion of your arms again.”
- Eyes blink in response.

“Kiss me.” She murmurs.
It cocks its head hungrily it feeds on her desperation
then moves skillfully towards her, transcending her trembling thighs.
Perching itself competently on her still heaving breast,
and as a cat would steal ones breath, he would steal her last kiss.
As within the light of his face, she sees the death
- Of her loneliness.

…

Silken drapes glow of sunrise
as the mounting light caresses the contours of her face.
Does she sleep so soundly as the dead,
or is it that porcelain skin has turned to alabaster?
As upon her nightstand sits a stemmed glass spent of wine
and a scripted vial spent
- Of her soul.

Then so does her beauty sleep.
That what were once the whispers of love in the dark
were merely her unheard screams in the night.
Yet will there be anyone who will remember her name?
Therefore we must take a care of what it is we would dream for
as there is a little hell to be had
- In us all.

Thus are the perils of heart.
As Cleopatra seduced her asp; Ophelia was seduced by the river
then so did Juliet became her dagger’s own sheath.
What for is this madness which is wrought by loneliness
when all we ever wanted to be
- Was loved.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2002

Lipstick traces

As I remember my first kiss -
I remember my second and all the kisses I never had.
If I never said the words – I meant to.
If I did - I never said them enough, forgive me.
It was all the time I had to say
- “I love you.”

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Dawn

As her kiss is instilled –

Within the gentleness of a shard of light.
Intangible is the caress which is warm of revelation
my faith restored by tender illumination
that embraced is the hope
- Of today.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Requiem for a dream

I miss the small horned bird –
Once perched outside my window at dusk,
head cocked slightly in anticipation and courting expectation
would flutter his tiny stature as if to clear his throat.
Leaves move with the wind yet the trees speak not this night
as the song at my sill is sullen and soulless
and I think of all he intended
- To be.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

The owl's song

The caress of solitude –

Is the gentle call of night and its serenade
Be it a cry haunting of melancholy
twilight is only as lonely as the accompany of our
- Hearts.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Thrasher

What reckless hearts were we –

That we lay hidden in these fields of gold.
Exchanging laughter and smiles that innocence tempted
and as the dusk descended then so did our desires.
Eyes blue within blue as her hair fell darkly around me
and I was blessed with her memory’s kiss
that stirs a storm in my heart
- Even now.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009