Speak to Me

O, Speak to me your lover’s tongue…

I yearn to hear the passage on which you withered and hung.  Show me the face of praise, each time you gave, when she sang out in words unsung. 

Can you still hear her silent scream in a language owned by one?

Did you know she’d rather pick the scab than heal the need, your script…her outcome.

You see, I can never be,
that spade, your lover’s tongue…

For she lives within me, a cursed chameleon.

Jemfyr  ©

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4 Comments

  1. June 14, 2009 at 2:23 am

    Great poem. Really flows well. I could never write like that. Besides its been to long since I’ve had a lover’s tongue speak to me.

  2. Sam said,

    June 14, 2009 at 4:24 am

    Passionate and lyrical, with a Whitmanesque metricality. A wonderful start to this journal!

  3. twitery said,

    June 15, 2009 at 2:55 am

    That’s lovely – sounds just like someone I know really well. Silent screams too. 😉
    @ChrisTwitery

  4. ~J~ said,

    June 24, 2009 at 4:28 am

    Well, of course I have to speak about how that poem tasted *smiles*

    It was clever and aluring, innocent and filled with expected pain…Her expected pain…It was so soft and yet simmering with passion, we cannot help but wonder what will happen next- Picking the scab rather than heal the need…Loved that!


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