Last night, you laid with me.
Your wilting life respired in my arms,
I held your loveliness,
your whispered my name.
How I wish that when we woke
it was still my name you whispered--
that my hands could know your being,
that I could taste our moon upon your lips.
There is a decadence to Seduction,
that rich crescendo of servility--
rare is the common man to know the sweetness of that song;
so rich with promise.
Our youth was in the swing and rise of starlight,
embodied by the phases from our secret-keeper, moon
who boldly held his white lips closed
when we met, forbidden-drink, beside the boughs of Oak.
Our youth died with the taste of the moon,
so I cannot lie to say I've loved you:
You know as well as I that we are no longer young,
no longer hungry for something as common as living.
These days, my common soul has common troubles;
my empty mind dwelling towards
the obligation due to dull employ,
the youthful death of lust for life,
one I promised you, long ago, before I knew its worth.
No longer can I dwell in the lie of that sweet rebellion,
no longer can I run my fingers through the summer grass, your smooth hair:
Enriching Summer love, is not for everyone's like me;
damn my empty promises!
Still.... to have spent my meager purse upon your young desire,
merely for the feeling when you smiled, merely to feel the joy in my heart
is something I will miss, from youth-strung Summers
Summers when you lay in my arms.
These days, occasionally
my dry, cracked lips whisper your name before I drink it down
(with bread and water, not the fine wine and meat I promised, again with my lies!)
and then I remember:
you didn't exist.
Not even for a little bit,
not even at all!
No comments:
Post a Comment