04-14-2021, 09:53 AM
Love, the undeclared stranger, is back
or lust with its deathless insect caresses,
a lingering game where all squares are black
the playing pieces our disguised embraces.
We wander there, alone in our every night
waiting for the other to unclothe our crime.
We have no license for the next step into light
where touch and soul fall out of time.
The lie of love is a hangman’s knot
the surfeit of lust is just out of reach
we study ourselves and wait for the blind spot
where civil hearts are just a figure of speech.
The art of love is a special beast
and if, or without, we shall be released.
or lust with its deathless insect caresses,
a lingering game where all squares are black
the playing pieces our disguised embraces.
We wander there, alone in our every night
waiting for the other to unclothe our crime.
We have no license for the next step into light
where touch and soul fall out of time.
The lie of love is a hangman’s knot
the surfeit of lust is just out of reach
we study ourselves and wait for the blind spot
where civil hearts are just a figure of speech.
The art of love is a special beast
and if, or without, we shall be released.