tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41993948803926797872011-04-21T11:59:15.482-07:00Adam Brunshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04767317313285448734noreply@blogger.comBlogger21100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4199394880392679787.post-90549370363028518442007-04-13T21:25:00.001-07:002007-04-15T15:48:31.357-07:00I remember <br />when I first looked <br />into those sapphire eyes<br />and they peered into my soul, <br />screaming with every energetic pulse <br />surging through your body;<br />“I Love You.”<br /><br />It was that first touch <br />that told me everything <br />I ever needed to know<br />has been formed <br />into this one, perfect, <br />example of woman.<br />Your warm, gentle hand <br />deluged my soul with comfort <br />and eased my tortured mind; <br />feelings I thought once void <br />in this clay mold.<br /><br />It was when I walked into a room <br />and you were there, <br />my heart started to race <br />pumping oxygen rich crimson <br />through veins, capillaries, arteries. <br /><br />It was when I drew in the pheromones <br />bubbling from your pores, <br />that I knew <br />I wanted only one thing,<br />and that I was finally at “home.”<br /><br />It was that moment I woke <br />and could look into your face <br />and know that this is life.<br /><br />It was when those words <br />dripped off your tongue, <br />rippling emotion through my soul <br />that, I knew,<br />I loved you.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4199394880392679787-9054937036302851844?l=brunspoetry.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Adam Brunshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04767317313285448734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4199394880392679787.post-75832851190316522852007-04-13T09:35:00.000-07:002007-04-15T15:53:41.087-07:00She is probably lying in her bed right now, <br />asleep.<br />Her heavy Japanese eyelids collapsed <br />from the drugs and disease <br />that are at war within her veins; <br />body.<br />Her slender frame masked <br />by the hand-knitted afghan; <br />blue and red and yellow and brown <br />yarn weaving astrological patterns <br />over her shoulders, arms, chest.<br />Her skin; <br />you can still see the light tan <br />loosely draped around her brittle skeleton; <br />the soft epidermis; <br />valleys and mountains; <br />the folds of time <br />stretched across her face <br />as I look into her withering brown eyes.<br />She sheds a tear; <br />not for her and not for me <br />but for what will be missed <br />as time moves on <br />and she collapses into everything.<br /><br />The dusk of Wednesday.<br />Across the street sits a steeple;<br />Little children <br />and their mothers <br />and their fathers<br />and their grandmothers <br />and their grandfathers <br />filter out through the arch doorway <br />with little black crosses <br />thumbed into their foreheads.<br /><br />The difficult task <br />of raising and lowering her chest <br />is painful to watch; <br />the whir of mechanical parts <br />manufacturing oxygen; <br />the leaky sound <br />of escaping gas <br />at perfectly timed intervals; <br />Bach would have written a requiem.<br /><br />April showers bring May flowers <br />but I don’t want to look into the pine box.<br /><br />She is still there; <br />I can see her puffy black hair <br />peeking through the kitchen door; <br />the broken English phrases <br />spilling love and adulation;<br />I can still see her <br />tending to the sick boy; <br />he barely notices<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4199394880392679787-7583285119031652285?l=brunspoetry.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Adam Brunshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04767317313285448734noreply@blogger.com0