I am moth

I AM MOTH

Like a fluttering moth circling your candle’s flame

Drawn, I am, with no one but myself to blame

Senseless, evolutionary, mystic, and innate

Like a compass to the North, I am drawn to my fate

Yet, unlike the ignorant moth, I know I will get burned

Seeking love from a heart not able to be earned

Burned; by your static touch, the electric stroking of my arm

Friendly, not wanting to encourage, nor wanting to do harm

Teasing me with your innocence, your body warmth so tactile

I am swallowed by your eyes, and engulfed by your smile

I hover, peripheral, hoping, waiting for your burning touch

With my dazzled, flame-blind eyes, I see I hope too much

Clutching at the fading ghosts of an imagined joyous day

Into the surrounding darkness I drift aimlessly away

With scorchéd wings, tattered now, singed and flightless

Like a dry autumnal leaf, I spiral to the ground; lifeless.

 

 

 

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I met an old man…

I met an old man by the sea; an antique traveler was he; old so very old

His journey swift, or at times so slow, and subjected to heat and cold

His cloak well travel-worn and stained, and in places ripped and tattered

Well beaten was he by weather bad, and by strong winds had been battered

 

He had seen and passed so many things, and yet what he cannot say

Carrying trinkets, toys and cast off clothes he’d picked up along the way

He’d travelled long this silent one, from his distant home now far behind

Changing his mood with the moon; at times so foul, at others kind

 

Through valleys deep, forests dark, and through deserts oh so dry

Squeezing through narrow gaps of stone or passing ‘tween trees so high

Forcing his way over canyons of rock, or running down hills so steep

Sometimes slowing to a silent walk, or crossing through lakes so deep

 

But no stranger to us is this old man; his very soul oft laid so bare

From birth to death; forever changing, and yet forever there

But from his journey’s very start, this man he knew not the same

No mother or father ever cried out to him “River Nile is your name!”

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Dream of a dream

Dream, I have this this dream,

A warm, wet, slumbering dream.

I trace the fine curve of her jaw, to where it meets her ear,

I brush her closed eyelids; of me she has no need of fear.

The lips, her lips! I kiss them, gently, at first, and then with passion,

Tongues meet like a pair of entwining snakes in a wet, flickering fusion.

Testing, tasting, and the sweetness I drink,

This thirst will never be quenched, I think.

The shoulder, the smooth bicep, the dusky skin full of charm,

The mystic concave darkness of her smooth underarm.

Passing my palm over the satin sheen of her beautiful breasts, sleek with mountain dew,

The whorls of my thumb teasing her dark rosebuds, circling, eliciting a cat-like mew.

Tracing the line, a delicate invisible road, downwards heaven bound,

With finger and tongue, across her firm belly to Venus’s mound.

I kiss the delicacy of her fine ankle, following the curve of calf, softness of thigh,

Upwards to where my heaven awaits me; there exists no such Heaven upon high!

As to a stage magician, my hand quivers in a spell; her body levitating,

She arches towards me, her eyes squeezed shut, the contact anticipating.

Writhing, writhing now. Words uttered, unintelligible, moaning,

Watching her pelvic rise, straining to meet my magical hand, and groaning.

Touching now. Caressing with fingertips, as gentle as a phantasm,

I find the bead, the dewdrop bead, and she shudders in glorious orgasm.

As to a humming bird at the stamen of a flower, growing among the nettles.

Delicately seeking the nectar of her desire, I gently probe her petals,

I murmur into her softness, she purrs; and I seek to explore her wetness,

I am in heaven, at last, gratefully sipping her escaping sweetness.

No touch from her is asked or sought; but when it comes, I explode,

My mind shatters in ecstasy; in it, stars flare, fade and erode.

In the heady darkness of exotic space, as the planets spin and whirl,

I shake, I shudder, the dam bursts, and I collapse in a fetal curl.

And forevermore of that moment I will always dream,

But, I also hope, it will no longer be a just a dream.

One night, I beg, one hour, for how glorious it would be

Succumb, I plead, and for that secret moment, give yourself to me!

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Desolation

An empty, abandoned amusement park, silent on a cold autumn morning; scaffolding a mere latticework of sticks against a grey sky, leaves tumbling and swirling into dusty, dank corners like small dead things

A copse of haggard trees, skeletons black against the white glare of winter’s snow, bare of leaves and haunted only by the cold echo of cawing crows, flapping from twig to twig on damp black wings

A penny arcade, standing empty on the end of a desolate pier, closed at the end of the season, litter blowing and shutters rattling in a wet sea breeze, the ghosts of deflated balloons hanging limp on wet strings

My life without her; such does my heart appear… shuddering and shivering, comfortless and afraid, alone in the darkness of desperation and sadness, as the thin ghost of abandoned love icily sings

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To Hear the Lion Roar is now published

To Hear the Lion Roar is now published.

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To Hear the Lion Roar

To Hear the Lion Roar

To Hear the Lion Roar is a new book by Steve Foreman.

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My Autobiography

My autobiography is now published…
http://www.amazon.com/Number-Best-Selling-Autobiography-Someone-Youve-ebook/dp/B00K2GU8XQ/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1399477327&sr=1-1&keywords=the+number+one+bestselling

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