‘know me’

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The birds that flutter or gasp
not the singing type with colours and plume
A texture of drape in washed out chalk
not the shimmer of the evening sun
a crust of uneven grain in holy watered jam
not the trimmings of a bloody cow
a winter’s walk in deafening silence
not the buzz of the city music lights
a wave of tiny proportions in a mind half asleep
not the overcrowding beaches of a riviera
an ovary of blinded love unopened from shying inability
not a flaunting pink lace in obtuse arrogance
rattan and cheesecloth gifts in hand tied twine
not red and gold with baubles gifts of awkwardness
a box of old timeless love letters
not a message in the moving telephone
a promise of action in wood chopping for warmth
not an over plucked duvet in silk infidelities
a heart in shimmering white strands of black
not a smile in falsely coloured wefts of toy doll magnitude
hands to hands , mine to mine
and know me I do.

2 thoughts on “‘know me’

  1. There is magic in knowing who we are. If others can see us truly and become part of the miracle, that’s great. But in the end, the only touch and understanding that really matters is our own. “…know me I do”, indeed.

    Liked by 1 person

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