All was still, inviting keen smiles.
A dance was nothing more than
meaningless movements. Touches
were friendly, needed not be more.
Thoughts were never afterthoughts
fighting nature’s blow. Lovely life
pumped with consistency, refrained
from the tortoise or the hare.
But,
just a moment, a word, a name. O,
the distress of a name, bringing fire to a picnic,
dropping fear on top of all the small specs failing to scurry away,
pounding tight heads in need of soft threads, hostile visions, hostile needs, that hostile name!
Circle, I keep circling.
My detailed distance deserts what is demanded;
the mind meddles with no restrictions.
I come then I go, repeating and repeating with little pleasure.
This small devil!
He is the last straw, yet keeps me bound.
Still he laughs, for all adjectives, character, and meaning are lost, then again, never looked for, such a mindless action!
He, so powerless, not a word making the drum beat.
She, dishonorable genius, masking fate and excusing luck, mimicking the lumberjack in desperate times, only her bounties make fires.
Thus, singeing off what pumps, making theft that much easier.
Taunts come from grains of sand left in isolation, holding up salvation, bellowing for the worthy creature.
But,
whether we are a pig or a knight,
a scoundrel or a lion, we cannot
be worthy. So my mind stays searching,
gingerly lying by her pillow.

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One Response to His Need

  1. Sue Babcock says:

    Shades of James Joyce…

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