I heard you once, voice dead.
It was words that flowed from fingers distant
an echo dancing of the dancing of your tips,
the pulled the puppet, me,
not the image that you made. For that is you.
Bright desire flooded forth.
And it is I.
And this you caught a glimpse of my evening star.
Set stark against the galaxy of my breasts,
that were then ripe.
Do you remember the blur of my first skin?
Or the problems with your first shape?
It was so long until we had faces.
We were not made, and also not yet unmade.
We sent pictures spare of pixels,
and blurred by the poverty of light.
But then, when we met, it was always winter night.
How I wish it was then.
I heard you once, voice distant.
A cheap microphone made you tin,
the king of my world,
and I am copper.
We allowed are shining bright bronze,
a mirror that reflects the brightest shine,
in my eyes.
And this you became my morning star,
placed tight in moments before the waking of the others in my day.
That other life.
From which all things vernal sprang.
But now, it is only for you
ever that soft season, when descending upon my picture,
are your soft showers.
And these you, show to me.
My petals flower, to greet that intimate salute.
I do those duties with half quiescent spirit,
pouring cornflakes and coffee for touch and go
companions of convenience.
I once called them my family, but they share nothing with me now.
We cannot speak long, but low and hushed,
I dare to moan as you type the dance of seduction,
which some how you made with your deduction,
made erotic induction.
It is now the picture of my inner life.
I heard you once, clear as voice,
crystal clarity, your daughter's sweet sing song,
guiding the echoes, in the background.
Where once you were the minstrel of romance,
now you speak of your daily sorrow.
I understand of what mettle you must be made to withstand such heat.
What temper you must hold,
that you need to quench it,
a dream union,
that is oh so real between my thighs.
The seat of my house of the holy.
Could you survive as real to me?
Could I survive with my faults forward in your ear,
my quivering not just from desire, but fear?
My quavering all from need?
What wires strand invisible,
drawn of etheral metal?
Upon your pillar it looks as stone,
it is where I am lead and your are found,
Him of the sect of Saturn,
that joviality of olde,
where jewels jests are told.
Therefore lo this pillar
is not the seeming see,
but that sense that plunges
into my waiting frame.
Iron the metal that mars is,
which is the god of battle.
But molten is the poison that you pour
into my craving ear.
And it's burning turns my wheel.
It is such a pretty poison,
that is sweet upon my tongue,
and it paints the world a wash of white,
that blinds my seeing eyes,
but opens the sixethed sense.
I heard you yesterday, voice brilliant,
the memory playing the parts that we did play,
the clarity of air between us gone,
more crystal than the flesh allows.
Our images movements are more real
than any metal royal could cloak.
Our sights are as we would be,
if only our ages and age would have matched us.
I hear you now voice live.
My fingers cannot move quicksilver,
my lips cannot be more languid.
I am open for you,
as from that first time,
as for the next time,
as for all times.
For we are here, and there, and together,
at thus and so and once we began.
I heard you then,
without a sound,
and now with deep connection returned,
I love you more now,
with all that I have learned.