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Wes Thompson

All Of The Babies, They Can Feel the World; That's Why They Cry

the ancients could find
comfort in meaning
in paradox and irony
but they didn't know a thing
outside the primal workings
of a manifest god
found in circles and trees
rivers
sunsets
unmovable mountains
the ability to rely
solely on blistered hands
and soft kisses
I can hear a bird sing
as the wind makes all the leaves
in a forest shiver
with a single breath
it's beautiful
but it doesn't mean a thing
to me

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Half Hoping To Slumber Only With The Sea

I spoke of pretty little things,
of moon spun silk,
recollections of kissing her soft neck-
but only to shroud my honesty,
my greatest fear-
better left a memory,
scribbled on these dirty scraps,
I can remain deep in her heart-
evoked only when she feels,
so alone-
this ghostly apparition,
she will hold closer than I could have ever hoped,
to be-
locked in her arms,
I smile just remembering,
how I would lay wide awake,
all night-
just to be the one she called,
when she couldn't sleep-
so softly, my love,

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