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Poem

A Letter to Myself



Should I give up writing
Seems all this bleating and wailing
Bemoaning this lot of love
I am allocated to feel
But never touch

Should I stop showing the world
Such a pitiful and pathetic face
As it twists and grapples
Dug in my heart
With its suffocating blade
Of aloneness

Where I am lost

When are the fluorescing lines
Of my gratitude
What are my words praises to love
With this eternal gift
Floating me in the fires
Of hot air balloons
But still gut wrenches out my soul
In this separation

“Come on,” I tell myself
What wrapped delight have I known more
I should be proud of my hunger
Feed it with all the imagined embraces
Just for her

More a rock I should
Than this wet dripping weak kneed flannel be

More colourful and joyous
In my need
In deliverance believes

Faith it should be
For the ever bonded
To such a fate
Allows my love to consume me
Her heart so tender
Must needs better of me
Than this whimpering sop
Who’s begging and pleading
Has no real foundation in my bones

More eloquent is she
More rapturous  
Than the blazing anthologies of Isis
The hymn and rhythm of her
Calls to me 
Shout of exultant
Piercing forever’s follicle
Permeable
She saturates

More a kin to glory I should be
More humbled
And less bent to paupers knee
To lift her ankle
And kiss her feet

Rather I should not
Die so
But 
Live

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