What flits across the faces of women
Is always interesting to me,
Especially when they see their face
In the face of the mirror.
The looking glass accentuates
And deteriorates the true
Sense of any face.
So aware of your own features
That your face within a glance
Reverts to some mask-like faction
Of its normally vicarious self.
So what do we see
When we look into the looking glass,
For we never truly see ourselves.
And why do we look at all?
Posted by Michael Sazonov on October 14th, 2011 at 11:07 am
Blocks away from yesterday
and miles from where I started.
Not sure exactly what to say
but talking of those departed.
Those that hold us in their literary love
Those that take us from below to above
and over and under and through every blunder,
away from the pain and out of the rain.
You dry me and warm me
and coo me and woo me.
and there’s something in your eyes
that tells me to stay
to hold tight “don’t fret, don’t fight”
I see an invitation
a declaration
or maturation
of feelings I’ve known before
Something I’ve smelt
Something I’ve tasted
those tears on my lips
and throat that’s been basted
by the warmth, so hollow
deep down in my chest
that moans will soon follow
and sparks in my breast
vaporized and motorized.
She beat hard to keep up
with this mud clay that I’ve crafted
into this sad mold
of a man and shell of a boy
she’ll hold in her hand
and smile and look
far into the distance…
Your eyes shimmer like streaks of moonlight
are caught, and those pastures of mystery
and I wander far and deep while
you take no notice, while you think of
something else or no doubt of someone else
Your mind wanders off and you look off into the distance
and your hair stands and streaks angelically in place
and I wonder back to the time I held you
in an embrace standing there,
still. holding you
caressing your hair
whispering some sort of affirmation
while thinking of unvetted declarations…
Then all at once you glance back at me
and probably wonder why I’m so lost
and just where I’ve been.
And I blink like a boy caught asleep in first period.
and I smile shyly and look inside
but you’ve put up your green wall
and my soul stops dead, in its unrequited path
just passed your eyelashes and ahead of your cornea.
Posted by Michael Sazonov on October 7th, 2011 at 12:27 am