Thursday, 25 April 2013

Just Like Oil Off The Hand

     Like a song that cunnilingers on a lovers tongue, 
and yet tastes of another tune, 
memories from a past life 
experienced but a handful of years 
bygone, 
like Cranberries on Blueberry Hill, 
out of place 
in this space and 
timelessness, 
which is nothing but the unfolding verse, 
the one verse, 
uni-versal song 
of life 
where division equals 
none, 
and that which knows no other 
still awaits 
its lovers embrace 
with a taste like a breastful'a 
grapes, 
whilst the past hinders its 
presence 
as all there is, has been 
or can be, 
until it is washed away 
by the falling rain, 
gradually, 
just like oil off the hand . . .


Written by: 
The Unfolding
Asis.