Poetry 'n Prose


Maybe our souls do
Mingle when together
Our bubbling blood
The crown of passion and it’s bearer
We returned into the familiar world
Into the lost garden

For a moment we took our place
The immense need for air
Noting the difference, the surprise
Of the turn where my fingers slip
The press of your weight brings me to ecstasy.

And there is no choice about pain,
Knowledge is pain
Although we could live again
Without history, without fear
Our souls,
Intermittently mingling.

By 67paintings

A dialectical site of poetry, painting and the odd musical excursion into the unknown.

One reply on “Mingle”

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