With nothing else, I delight myself
with thoughts of you.
I dream of holding you;
your legs wrapped tight
around me, I feel you
in my arms as I inhale
your scent and taste your bitter,
lovely, residue
as it's lost in my mouth
to your extensive, virile, kisses.
I think of writing you.
Ensnaring you with my raw words
like stems and shoots and leaves
that, hidden in nature,
tie you all the more mischievously-
with a necessary guile
to fill myself on you.
Like the nomad I am,
I must capture you;
must take my draught
before this sickness kills me.
I am faint through missing you.
The impostor of my thoughts
is not enough to keep me sated.
Though I wait and carry on
unhindered, still
I sear under a golden God
to find the flesh that fits your form.
***
Hail!
Wild rush of
glorious wind!
Hail!
Tidal force bequeathed
by ocean's rare...
***
What may, at first, sound like obnoxious perfidy;
pretensions and otherwise, are really not:
I resolve as I revolve;
spinning a silk strand, web-maze shell
around me, as I delineate from thought
to deal with introspection, extraversion,
hypothetical scenarios, meditation, alteration...
I analyse, logicise, radicalise, rationalise, mystify,
and then act, reflect, reaffirm, relate, respond, readjust.
All things bear subjective relativism.
'All things being equal', and 'all things to all men',
all things are fine and all well and true-
as and was when they happen. 'Here today
gone tomorrow'; another layer twisted through
as I spin, spin, spin, metamorphose and grow-
taking flight from the vulgar youth and infancy
of ideas as I bloom into an adult butterfly-
beautiful, with learned wing.
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