Array ( [sid] => 24168 [catid] => 1 [aid] => Mick [title] => Echo [time] => 2003-10-01 05:05:00 [hometext] => A jealous little poem... [bodytext] => She saunters
into the workday room;
his greeting,
"You still
have that glow"
oozes
from his lips like butter,
coating her skin
with a creamy, salty sheen;
I hear an echo
in his voice.

Winsome nymphs
float around the room;
his eyes and voice
enfold them sweetly.
Here he roosts:
nest of silk,
nest of ashes,
struggling
not to telegraph his need.
Hugs drop into his arms like nectar;
I feel an echo
in his desire.

He is a poet;
his words
stutter, stumble first,
then thrust themselves
onto the virgin page.
He reaps
his crop of laurels
smoothly, gladly.
They pour like honey
from moist young lips,
and I see an echo
between his pages;
it mimics the image
in my mirror's lens.


[comments] => 1 [counter] => 340 [topic] => 2 [informant] => sugarboy [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => LovePoetry ) Your Poetry Dot Com - Echo


Echo
Date: Wednesday, 1st October 2003 @ 05:05:00 AM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry

Contributed By: sugarboy
She saunters
into the workday room;
his greeting,
"You still
have that glow"
oozes
from his lips like butter,
coating her skin
with a creamy, salty sheen;
I hear an echo
in his voice.

Winsome nymphs
float around the room;
his eyes and voice
enfold them sweetly.
Here he roosts:
nest of silk,
nest of ashes,
struggling
not to telegraph his need.
Hugs drop into his arms like nectar;
I feel an echo
in his desire.

He is a poet;
his words
stutter, stumble first,
then thrust themselves
onto the virgin page.
He reaps
his crop of laurels
smoothly, gladly.
They pour like honey
from moist young lips,
and I see an echo
between his pages;
it mimics the image
in my mirror's lens.




This poem is Copyright © sugarboy


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