Sunday, November 26, 2006


12 March 2006, 4:57 PM

Another older poem, though not very.

There is one who cannot touch
except to pound the fist
who cannot speak unless to scream aloud
who cannot drink but to inebriate
who cannot eat apart from gorging
beyond his sate

Such a one will never understand
the lengths to which she goes
to beckon forth the parts of her
requiring a whisper
a feather touch
the brush of a lash upon the cheek
the tenderness of breath against bare skin
or gentle summer breezes
wafting silk against an azure sky
scarcely moving a lock of hair out of place
to fall across my face
and hide the parts which cannot bear
the grating of the wind

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George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

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