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Wednesday, November 2, 2011


Words can sometimes be spoken or written as a mistake, and in this poem the first line is just that. I took the bank of my thigh which was suppose to write the back of my thigh and wrote The Way a Woman Yearns.

The hunger for love is much more difficult to remove than the hunger for bread. ~Mother Teresa

The Way a Woman Yearns

The bank of a thigh,
the crevice of cries
both forgive the
pace of her opening tide,
flooding the barrier of
smooth rock and hurt.

Fluidity touched, stars
quieted by the
secluded tiny secret,
the violet space between
fractured mountains
and to the memories
of the haunting dark.
Salty tears are
newly found in
the universe of my years.

You and I, match
another’s lips, the
water of infinity,
earth sunk to the
bottom of a river, silk
found by the hidden finger tips
of my lips. Still forgotten to
the mystery of
buried passion.


your swelling ascends,
saint's bells and
steeples rise as
consumes and
worships the feeling
of wet dew settling on
my sovereign land.

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