A poem of desire is an asking canvas
half-writ with the sea breeze and surge of lines
like waves in the distance, heaving immense
Sumptuous letters, full as bell tolls at tide’s burgeoning,
asking your memories for warm flesh
and kisses like sea breeze from a heart’s first bliss
You embrace the canvas, cast eyes upon the dark sea:
Flat rolling of wine after the longing came; a dull wave crest since.
But the poem of desire is a quick ship, sometimes departing
You want to receive again, like grace, that sea-swept spell –
the awe of loving your first soul; that fusion of two souls
complete and dull longing stifled.
You want to remember the quiet stillness
of a completed soul.
Without a poem, you find sometimes you cannot articulate
what the feeling is that betrays you, the ache –
But you know the soul-finishing is a poem without words.
You wish that this canvas could articulate Twilight’s glow, the memory
of Dawn’s promise unfulfilled, and baritone symphonies of regret that smolder –
or could at least grant catharsis to your soldiering
But would your longing decrease, or grow burdensome
as wild lilac vines flowering, after consuming
the tingling nutrients of a lustful feast?
Are you disappointed by an absence of
the sensuous in this self-proclaimed desirous piece?
Such is the infinity of longing, and the brevity of bliss.
What drives you to keep searching?
The lingering promise of satisfaction,
or the slow flatness of all tides since?
This poem cannot ease your longing, it can
only remind you of blankness – of loss:
that transcendence of the vacancy displaced.