In nightmares
The dark
Stares
Within our heart.
And, when
Good men
Awake
They take
A look inside
Their heart.
And decide
“Is that fantasy
The whole,
Or a mere fractionality
Of me?
‘Tis fortunate none can see
Into my soul.
And the lies
Behind my eyes.
He longed for girls in high-heels,
With soft,
Perfect skin.
But the devil coughed
And reminded him
That he was growing old
And that he had sold
His soul
For lust
To girls in high-heels
Who love gold,
Which crumbles into dust
We have no control
Over the sleeping head
And dread
That our soul
May be exposed to the light of day.
For dark fantasies creep
Out in sleep
And in the land
Of dreams none may command
His wandering hand.
When we awake
Our dreams we shake
Off.
Yet, sometimes we may,
In the quiet of the day
Hear the devil cough
And whisper low
“I know
Where you go
In sleep …”.
Its funny
How money
Creates a hole
In one’s soul
Stillettos encase neat
Little feet.
Bare
Perfectly toned legs invite
And excite.
Mutual delight
They may find,
To temporarily bind
Them together, but does he care
To probe what is in there?
No, not that obvious place,
The space
Where many a man will
Thrill,
Spill
Then go.
No, I mean her brain
That does contain
The whole girl.
The Whirl
Of loves, thoughts and emotion,
The vast ocean
Of her soul.
How easy to loose the plot.
The fire burns hot
And the hand
Obeying not sense’s command
Touches the burning coal.
The soul
Pulls back
But oft we lack
The will
To climb the hill
To a cloudless place
Where the sun’s face
Banishes the dark
And tears of joy start
To fall.
We recall
The path of right
And struggle against the night.
Desires
Carried by wires.
She burns
And turns
To one
who enters in.
Will cables that coil
Contain passions that boil?
Will dials
defile
Smials
As man plays
Out his days?
Will the machine control
The soul?
A cold fire burns.
She turns
And looks.
She struts
Her stuff.
Her desire for cash
His decision rash.
Two souls zooming out of control
Down the primrose path
To hell.
All appears well
Then, smash!
The sighing breeze
can not freeze
the frozen heart.
There are no tears to start
welling up
From the dry brook.
A child’s innocent voice
Perchance makes the heart rejoice.
A little ice melts
And the soul struggles to be free.
The ice in my heart
causes tears to start.
Sometimes the lark doth sing
bringing thoughts of spring.
Flashes of light
In the darkeness of night.
The candle flickers
As Lucifer snickers.
The fire is piled high with coal
But can not unfreeze my soul.
K Morris - Poet 