We do ourselves carry a manner
some desire, a sweet inspire
takes our momentum away.
Would a person wonder of
a facade before their own passion,
Do we all find ourselves posing.
When last our eyes did
glance upon the beauty of love
then our hearts together bound.
Would then our aching body presume
this fire our sensuality will consume.
There was a time when song seemed a natural path,
the flowers along a walkway glisten in the rain,
a shadow of fear lost upon a sunlit horizon
for everywhere we look might smile sweet love.
Wish that a melody could walk me in a forest
feel the natural scratch of brush along naked skin,
the rustling of autumn leaves give way to the cold
deadening nature of our forever changing season.
I wished tonight I could hear her voice again,
so many hours of wonder, of hope, when a tear follow
the natural course of life when lost inside a dream,
a hope, a passion, silent reminder of when, only then.
This common theme of grateful eyes, and distant fond
the grace of some familiar trail that would our eyes become
now a simple nostalgic fairy tale, that once could be believed,
would now be perhaps romanticized beyond our reality.
I wanted to hear you, to see you, to sense your presence near me,
oh to know the beauty of your elegance I once could hold so dear.
© Scott F Savage 2019
I find it difficult to navigate
a way out of the blues
waiting to hear
wanting to know
feeling a presence
unwilling to show.
Times like these might I rather
pretend away
imagine a day
when our lives might meet
in some symbolic greet
on a brisk winter morning
the frost icing our cheek.
I might reach out with a fingertip
perhaps take a chance with a kiss
we could then
melt away our fears
brush away her tears
so maybe my own
less a reminder
more live inside the love
we might have known.
©️Scott F Savage 2019
a frost moon – 11/12/2019
she told me it was
I glanced
a sweet pang in my heart
a foggy night,
the horizon held stirring symbolism
a meaning blur
our imagination
is meant to create beauty
the landscape
a chilly reminder of a season
where names and a yearn become
synonymous shelter
inside the quiet serenity
of a familiar seclusion
the galaxies come alive
with a named beacon in the night.
she told me it was
I listened
sweet remedy is a broken silence
hers is a romantic remembrance
one night,
many hours,
a soft brilliance of Nature
her cheeks radiant,
touch my lips to her forever
inside sweet remedy
we believe in the elegance
of her light,
intertwined
our world
she told me it was
and I smiled …
© Scott F Savage 2019
In sweet decline we would grapple
with the loss,
the notion of life beyond
what we dream,
perhaps believe,
the passionate embrace
inside the quiet realm of knowing
this is real,
we did touch,
feel,
there was an afternoon …
In this morning,
we stepped into an earlier hour,
by virtue,
the mechanical nature of our society,
legislates an autonomy,
no longer our own,
like a colony of
helpless animals,
we all acquire some odd satisfaction
with the turning back of time,
evening, at dusk,
become an immediacy
more silent
than even the morning before.
I had a dream about you,
he was there,
as was she,
all of us intermingling,
in some bizarre absurdist
playoff
of our own nightmares,
coming forward,
we cleared up a lot of
insecurity,
knowing our lives
did contain a similar balance
unraveling along the
Pennsylvania turnpike,
another common avenue
along the many paths
we choose to lead our lives.
A mentor once,
he thought of it first,
I the listener
talked clearly
everything begun
nowhere at all,
of all we value,
we cry, we weep, we excite,
the natural course of reward,
becomes rather the gift
of nothing.
© Scott F Savage 2019
I stole away,
to be with her,
a wintry chill
gave reason to smile
eyes crisp in a late autumn
while the days did seem
more moving to frozen rains
the memories of such
fogged passions
cold leather seats
on naked sensuality
we would forever draw lips
upon each other
without concern
beyond having
one another,
having each other,
finding our center
through roaming hands,
clinging thighs,
wet sultry avenues of torturous passion,
while outside
the winds would certainly change,
our lives as they are now,
caught in a breeze,
drifting slowly toward
some distant horizon,
where the warmth of our memory,
would rise and set with the seasons.
One time
in the middle
of the summertime,
I would hear a voice,
a soft internal kind,
could tell me
everything I ever wanted to know
about you,
like a steady chime on an
antique grandfather’s clock,
I could count on the numbers
the many times
when she would come to mind,
my feelings,
emotions,
I would then feel the charge of her
sweet remedy
to fill the empty spaces
in my mind.
I wish I knew how to find those times.
© Scott F Savage 2019
I talk about things here,
sometimes only the surface
worry often the recipient
might find the strength …
Our lives are easily defined
fears, fascination, fantasy
each aspect an inspiration,
chosen or speculated.
In the scope of my life,
I’ve learned words,
specific to my personality
eccentric, abandoned, romantic.
I wish she might still …
well, the conversation has limits
I might wish to not understand,
hold onto that disbelief long as I can.
I wonder than about the scheme of things,
is there fairness in a one-sided appeal.
A long time ago it might have been so easy,
yet I couldn’t for reasons I cannot explain.
Though in soft moonlight and lush gardens
I have so tried, and lived such is a passion.
Perhaps we both felt the pain of a sadness,
while a personal affront seemed an expectation.
Today, the sun is brilliant in an autumn sky,
and all we might do is imagine – maybe alone.
A solo cloud crossed the horizon with normalcy,
an envious desire to hold another in my heart
nearby the elegance of nature and a mindful
struggle with a newly found lacking utterance.
Would we that did speak of an eternal affection
now decidedly find scrutiny sadly favorable.
We did travel, we did remind, we did imagine,
we did commit, we did respect – forever
we did love.
© Scott F Savage 2019
I’m willing
I will sacrifice
happiness
somehow find your heart
miles away
still
the winds, the breeze
all remind of your favorite
testimony
‘listen to the winds change’
and I have,
every morning, night,
in a rainstorm,
I can hear you,
I imagine you,
straight through to my dreams
there is where I can be with you,
until opening eyes,
and relying upon
a gentle breeze
in the august of my life.
 | a quiet man on The Last Full Moon |
 | enchantingsunrise on The Last Full Moon |
| a quiet man on ‘The Holidays Are A Diff… |
 | Antony H. on ‘The Holidays Are A Diff… |
| a quiet man on Untitled |
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