Whispers

I am he who worships Spring
in moonlit mountain shallows.

I am he who watches you,
insubstantial shadow.

I am he who brings night’s ship
safe to morning’s shore.

I am he who loves you,
your servant, evermore.

Ryan Stone

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The Grey Mornings

I start at the sound of each car passing
on midnight streets outside;
hoping it’s you,

knowing it isn’t.
Dreams fade with your warmth
as reality slowly intrudes:
it would be enough
to fall into your arms
and know I’d wake there, too.

I am only real
when you are near,
but you never stay

and the grey morning is close
and mine alone.

Ryan Stone

 

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Alley Cat

She slides through the city night,
caressing shadows to silence.
Wicked eyes come alive
as she pours through my window
like molten ambrosia
and starlight.

Her pale skin soft as the moon’s indiscretions,
her nails as long as nine lives;
she purrs in my ear, the language of felines
who wander with lust on their tongues.

She’s been here before,
sheds her guilt
with her habit
and yowls
the quarter awake.

Before dawn can catch her,
she slinks from my pillow
to bathe in the streetlight,
I watch her transform:
she twists like the band,
returned to her finger,

becoming a house cat
once more.

Ryan Stone

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