Tonight, Send Me A Warrior King

 

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Tonight,
My enemy lies beside,
under the cover of night,
A little slice of heaven,
desire to roam my body, passion to clutch my throat,
lips wet with promise, lust never tasted so divine,
savoured like forbidden fruit, I bite with greed,
leave behind teeth marks
and a throbbing wound

Tonight,
send me a man,
a bold one,
a warrior king,
I need a fighter, someone who’s not afraid to sin,
a solider looking for a fight,
to combat under the sheets,
we will battle through to dawn,

Tonight,
is all we have,
tomorrow you can leave,
I’ll be finished with you by three,
we can be nemeses,
in the light of day,
but under the cloak of darkness,
you will be mine.

Tonight, you’ll stay.

@JCALVERT 2016, REVISED 2017

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To Wear Our Scars?

 

There is a scar
that covers about three inches of skin
on soft tissue,
just above your breast,
it runs a jagged line
it reminds me of a flower vine
creeping up your neck,
faded in time
a silver tattoo left,

Does it feel different on the tongue?
I run my lips across the serrated point
Quickening with every lick,
Each mark holds a depth untold
I feel a beating pulse within –
more than just a hollow organ;
a heart of its own
flowing in feelings.

This scar that is visible
carried upon your chest
weighing too heavy
for you to undress
like a photograph –
a moment never forgotten.
A permanent welt.
A visible form.

If the scar wasn’t there to remind you?
Could you forget it?

Thoughts

It’s been on my mind –the idea of a scar. We all have scars. Some are visible, some hidden and those buried so deeply, that we are ourselves are shocked to find they are there.

Does wearing our scars in different ways affect our-self?
Do we carry them for everyone to see?
Or hide them so deeply, that we forgot them, for a time.

Because even if we bury our burdens, they have a way of resurfacing.
Is it better to wear our scars?

WRITTEN BY J.CALVERT 2016

ALL PHOTOGRAPHS BELONG TO TALENTED PHOTOGRAPHER ANNA O.PHOTOGRAPHY 2015

A Field Of Bones

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A field of bones,
Scattered across the plains,
Skulls and skeletons,
Lay,
A thorn spine,
And needle,
Pierce my side,
Blood coils in the sun,
Ashes dot the wind,
Cinders spun,
Of plains of mighty dust,

A village,
Bleak,
Of war-torn distress,
Remnants of a town,
Dead,
The shell of houses, scorched,
Desolate in the wake.
The silence of this place,
Haunting, the ghosts who stay,
Frames and corpses,
Chiselled to the core,
A field of bones,
Left to settle the score,

A flower grew, in the harshest of conditions,
Under the burning sun,
Among the skulls of the unsung,
A red bloom, of lonely plight,
To dazzle this horrible sight,
Growing more beautiful by the day,
Showering herself with the sun’s rays,
This little floret, nurtured by the elements,
Cultivated the plains,
Amid the field of bones,
Flourished tiny buds of red.

J.CALVERT 2016