Vanilla

3 Comments

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  • Loss

    Vanilla

    Vanilla hangs on the air,
    a ghost smiling sweetly at me.
    I lay on the floor,
    my heart beats with the ticking of the clock.
    That clock has to be tired.
    My eyes roll to the doorway.
    The walls ask me where she's gone.
    "Home." I say.
    Two weeks since I slept in the warmest bed.
    Two weeks since I could run without losing breath.
    Looking to the cottage cheese ceiling,
    I imagine I am microscopic.
    I run between the giant white hills,
    the ticking clock resonating like a gong falling
    from the top shelf.
    I run with the fury of love,
    her spirit filling my lungs.
    Clinging to her shirt, breathing deep that vanilla scent,
    I decide I will lay here for some time.

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    SavVySam commented on Vanilla

    08-17-2009

    This is an amazing piece of poetic perfection! Smooth sweet and lingering like "Vanilla" Love it!

    Drivingczar commented on Vanilla

    04-07-2009

    Sweet feminine vanilla! She caresses your soul!

    graceladymn commented on Vanilla

    03-15-2009

    Vanilla is wonderful. Good work here.

    Poetry is finer and more philosophical than history; for poetry expresses the universal, and history only the particular.

    Aristotle (384 BC-322 BC) Greek philosopher.

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