|
|
|
Best Poems From
ROBERT L. BIXLER III
(February 14,1985)
|
|
| |
|
|
65.
|
Unseen
When the shards of empty glass
Are collected and disposed;
So shall the empty, hollow mass
That was my excelling life supposed.
Jagged edged and blood stained,
These shards unholy are remanents
Of the truth that unseen remained;
My life was unworthy of any sacraments.
Useless glass-form holding lifes energy
With thickened sides to withstand slights,
Forgotten coloring and lacking synergy
Of another to serve compliment under lights.
From my hands this vase falls
To explode in shattered shard form.
Sadistic smile and sinful calls
Allude eternity as I watch destructive norm.
To end my lofty burden of heart beat,
I long for the blasted glass requiem.
When jagged, damned blade meet
Loathed skin and blood, carpe diem.
Robert L. Bixler III
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
66.
|
Untitled
Sad, slow reflect of hopeful heart,
Brings this hopeless lover closure.
As I dream of emotional start,
It is present laments that obscure.
How is it that I yearn
For something Ive never received?
Passionate touch earn
That brings confidence short-lived.
If my blood has yet to run
In burning desire degree,
Am I capable of aged pun:
Loving-lust, not in thee.
If I am to never lust,
Then must I never know love?
Shall my heart simply rust
As the skin bleeds above?
It will be in this final hour
That my memories lie;
Tell me a story so sour
That I cannot sigh.
Robert L. Bixler III
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
67.
|
Venus
If it came down to it,
Could your love save me?
Would your life cease,
When my heart slept to you?
With a pigeon-toed approach,
I stand with hung head.
With a slight babbled-tourrets speak
I render weakened, insecure words.
At first, you take me whimsically
And brush off my compliments,
Before realizing my true indignity:
Id die for your love.
Temporal excuses and hurried lies
Flow in a slow trickling faucet fold.
Your methods slow the pain
Till the blade slides through skin.
Having tore my walls down,
The sorrow and bleakness rains.
I feel as Venus de Milo,
Weathered, cracked, without care.
Waiting for your love,
Ive lost parts of myself.
My body cripples and breaks
As my breath ceases without you.
Torn, beaten and bruised,
I collapse in your presence.
Now as my blood runs cold,
Can you bring life back to your Venus?
Robert L. Bixler III
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
68.
|
When Death Becomes Your Only Muse
When death becomes your only muse
How does one continue to write?
Year by year, you begin to lose
The love of life and quest for right.
Cold, heartless and cynical
You feel yourself becoming evermore
A calculated emotional cannibal.
Days of romance become forever lore.
Your gaze turns from full of life,
As the suns rising breath
Brings end to chilly night strife,
And turns toward morbid death.
How does one write of love's abuse
When death becomes your only muse?
Robert L. Bixler III
Read more: romance poems, death poems, sun poems, night poems, life poems, love poems, lost poems, rose poems
|
| |
|
|
|
|
|
|