Here's something you might be interested in.
Somewhere
between the Jekyll
and the Hyde your siren songs
seduced me into a voracious vacuumed void
where precision lies in presence and in shaded perception, absolute perfection.
We spin
beyond time and space,
reverberating, taut harp strings
humming, intimately attuned, glowing in lightness,
our once shredded, gasping, exhausted souls now harmonically converged.
Blinded,
I feel you still
despite the shrouding mist,
my cloaked masked muse, for I
can’t help but love the you in me and am bound eternally
to gravitate
towards the speck
of me that’s left in you.
Words are not the silver thread
with which to stitch the lining that’s been torn,
nor are magic
or star dust—just—
the wisping breath of a precious kiss
licked luxuriously like honey off recollecting lips,
just the simmering eyes that draw, that delve, that devour.
Relative
or imagined,
linear or cyclical,
temporal paradox abound
for fairies and forgotten gods—for Caesar and Einstein, too—
had never
mathematically calculated
the single most profound--continuum,
hadn't ever scientifically charted the inertial trajectory
pertaining to the volatile dynamics of divinely destined love.
Somewhere
between the smile and frown,
somewhere within the thickest fog, from somewhere
in the density of purgatorial nothingness I fortunately found
ultimately, superlatively, incredibly, and gratefully—nearly--everything.
Love me, love me lovely-- into the throes take flight and forfeit forever
the nevermore torturous fight. Accept that all is rightly right,
an exception to the rule, and left to your deft devices
is to pacify the fractured self
into a unified whole.
Somewhere
between the Jekyll
and the Hyde your siren songs
seduced me into a voracious vacuumed void
where precision lies in presence and in shaded perception, absolute perfection.
We spin
beyond time and space,
reverberating, taut harp strings
humming, intimately attuned, glowing in lightness,
our once shredded, gasping, exhausted souls now harmonically converged.
Blinded,
I feel you still
despite the shrouding mist,
my cloaked masked muse, for I
can’t help but love the you in me and am bound eternally
to gravitate
towards the speck
of me that’s left in you.
Words are not the silver thread
with which to stitch the lining that’s been torn,
nor are magic
or star dust—just—
the wisping breath of a precious kiss
licked luxuriously like honey off recollecting lips,
just the simmering eyes that draw, that delve, that devour.
Relative
or imagined,
linear or cyclical,
temporal paradox abound
for fairies and forgotten gods—for Caesar and Einstein, too—
had never
mathematically calculated
the single most profound--continuum,
hadn't ever scientifically charted the inertial trajectory
pertaining to the volatile dynamics of divinely destined love.
Somewhere
between the smile and frown,
somewhere within the thickest fog, from somewhere
in the density of purgatorial nothingness I fortunately found
ultimately, superlatively, incredibly, and gratefully—nearly--everything.
Love me, love me lovely-- into the throes take flight and forfeit forever
the nevermore torturous fight. Accept that all is rightly right,
an exception to the rule, and left to your deft devices
is to pacify the fractured self
into a unified whole.