Sketchbook 06-13-11 Pencil on Paper by Terrence L Cope
I reach out to touch the sun, flying so close
To hide in its light at the wake of the dawn
Withdrawn, waiting, watching from shadows,
Softened Colors that pass in revue ,
Pomp processions for this day
In its infinite depth of prying stars, dark and distant
A small prick of light, in itself, cast no warmth
A distant flames flicker, lights from the windows
Exists only to dance on flesh that’s wet and glistens
In amber sweat which wets hot flesh, cooling,
Defining, rising skin touching skin, shallow breathing,
Seaside breakfast, mimosas and the soft splash of tides
Rising, echoing the wings of the damsel fly
Echoing the death of night, softly and hidden
Souls rise up to touch the vanquished moon,
Rise to catch the last star, falling,
Rising up then slowly they die
To be wash away in violet skies
And the breeze finally arrives, teasing the reeds,
Lifting up the wings of the hunter, sea birds
Stir of froth from the crashing waves
Stirring the salty air,
Letting fly your darken hair,
Defined in this morning light,
A slight stir of sand,
Erasing our impressions,
Removing all that passes,
Denying our existence.
To hide in its light at the wake of the dawn
Withdrawn, waiting, watching from shadows,
Softened Colors that pass in revue ,
Pomp processions for this day
In its infinite depth of prying stars, dark and distant
A small prick of light, in itself, cast no warmth
A distant flames flicker, lights from the windows
Exists only to dance on flesh that’s wet and glistens
In amber sweat which wets hot flesh, cooling,
Defining, rising skin touching skin, shallow breathing,
Seaside breakfast, mimosas and the soft splash of tides
Rising, echoing the wings of the damsel fly
Echoing the death of night, softly and hidden
Souls rise up to touch the vanquished moon,
Rise to catch the last star, falling,
Rising up then slowly they die
To be wash away in violet skies
And the breeze finally arrives, teasing the reeds,
Lifting up the wings of the hunter, sea birds
Stir of froth from the crashing waves
Stirring the salty air,
Letting fly your darken hair,
Defined in this morning light,
A slight stir of sand,
Erasing our impressions,
Removing all that passes,
Denying our existence.
