Feelings around a pastiche of past and future romances part real, part imagination, part beyond truth or falsity.

true those raisins plump impel me
to the rim of ethic’s sphere
nevertheless
our culture is sapping your will
I know it for certain
I was alive when things were otherwise
certainly, you have the means
fancy idle a while longer
but your comfort is your torture
all cozy in custom shackles
youthlessness creeps into your iris
or it slithers near the pillowcase
I cannot orgasm you out of it
besides it was always your release
I never yearned my own
what one calls sex
the other deems loving
and when you work out why
we could smell the same dialect
tongue identical vowels
I would consonant you deftly
birthing miracle gaps of joy
as is my wont my predilection
but while your secret laboriously oozes
towards its exit wound of choice
mull this in your gyrating scenarios:
each hindrance, each bitter loss –
a sculpture your wiser deepness once crafted,
whereas the grace bestowed each joy –
a future glimpse you’ve not quite yet deserved
but granted you anyway

_______RS

[ Image : detail of a prize-winning photograph from Azerbaijan. ] (link)

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