Sunday, April 08, 2007

You Called

My hands ached with sweet agony,
White, skeletal, splintered with bony fingers,
They yearned to hold it out from in;
My eyes, which once devoured your image in my stead,
Now sought to drown in it a-whole,
Occupying the mind's third fully,
Only to discover they were already scorched with it;
My temples, hammered by your treasured voice,
No longer seem to note the piercing feeling they there underwent -
For brilliance, your own, has sated them
And brought burning comfort to their midst.
Aye, and then you called;
And senses shifted and blurred across my bosom,
My heart there raced and cantered like a rabid dog,
Turned loose upon the world in some muddy mire,
Dark as night and hot with flames that burn and burn the flesh away!
Aye, you called and ended life;
You smiled (for I sensed it in your voice) and folly flied;
You spoke! (And I could still hear it) and clove the heart right out of me.


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