Tailored impurity harnessed by,
Such delicate ribbon threads,
That fit to homely curves as,
I watch each silken strand,
Dance beneath these dim lights,
Knowing that with every rhyme,
I find a favoured ideal,
To gape and gawp at beauty,
I am left alone inside my thoughts,
Reaching out to caress both,
Tender thighs and breasts,
But I experience a familiar dance,
Brought between two old lovers,
Who know not each other’s Will.
Yet I still cling to flesh as real as day,
I cannot touch inside, She will pull away,
Her soul in flight, am I just my thoughts?
Limp and longing for the depths of knowledge.
I know not my Self, could I ever fathom?
To know another or are we all alone?
Her taste says no. Her warmth says no.
Only Her eyes betray, for there is no Love.
What is Love anyway? Ephemeral. Fact.
I’ll die alone. And so will She.
At least I caught a fleeting glimpse,
Her scent at last that roaming primitive,
Shall not be tamed by mortal hands,
Body encased by soul as She flies aloof,
To astral plains where no man can tread,
Alas poor boy, you’ll live to learn,
How no one knows secrets bound by time.
Fear not poor boy, it shall grow hard again,
Erectus Pubicus, I never studied Latin.
Or our own chemistry, so go to sleep,
In echoed thoughts where all I is lost,
To dream to dream and think on thoughts,
Tired at the expense of my own being,
Never mind dear mind. I curse that fatal word,
Which moulds to form an idea of Us,
Are we two or one? One is He or both?
I scratch my head while She drifts away,
Hold on to this I remind my Self,
For no one else I say,
Would love this dramatic mess,
The final actor’s soliloquy states,
‘Of course there is more.’
And more is plenty so now to sleep,
You’ve drunk your fill and tomorrow,
Who knows? I may perchance,
Find an answering key,
To end this minor chord and close this play.
Edmund Francis English