A Lost Touch

I touched her hand and the warmth of her soul rushed my veins like a mad river, obliterating all doubts. Would that I survive the tumult, the undying desire to touch her skin again, even for a moment, to relive the spectacle of love, invading my soul. O love the queen of liberty lead me to your throne where the finagling gods sit mesmerized by her beauty, let me dethrone their mythic love for our messy earthly chaotic love lasting for however long -- time is not love's barometer. I miss her now and will die waiting for the moment when love knocks on the door again and delivers the bouquet of fulfillment on its golden platter, whispering 'away the mundane, now life's extraordinary, dazzling!' O love the seeker of perfection chase away the demons chasing me in their dark alleys, into illuminating hearts, bleeding, screaming, aching for touch of her heavenly bliss. Who prowls in the shadow of my shadow in quest of tranquility, unfazed by the nadir of impermanence, drowning us in its cleavages like an overused meat grinder? Sad and broken, stiffly venturing out my window, and into the void. I'm a black hole within, salvaged only by love, same love that threw me to the void, covered by ambiguity, like a sheet of dust on the windshield -- that can't be wiped clean. Jai coule dans le nouvelle profoundeurs. Un rhume atroce envie mon soul glacee. Je ne peux pas arreter de penser a toi! Loin de toi, c'est la nuit, C'est la nuit triste et sombre, Et mon cœur plein d'ennui S'ensevelit dans l'ombre. Matters when love salvages a hopeless cynic on a heroic mission, antidote to life's touch of absurdity. neon lights and stars, heap of expectation, tower of hope, sea of emotions, tunnel out of deceit, tuned to Spirit, unhinged from inner vacillation, hooked to its anchor, leisurely sailing above clouds thundering excitement and thrill of bursting emotions and endless kisses -- healthy illusions of a head drunken with love, mumbling in candor in mid-Summer night, showered with fresh dreams, like so many noir movie reels on re-run, drenching in passion a poet's diseased heart. Thou knoweth the art of deprivation, so dream off the boat of capsized love! For love is anti-love when burdened by definitions. Dare not to thread the path of doubt where the wolves of history prowl, looking for easy prey. Love's strength keeps a warm cottage near frozen lakes, only the howling wind rattling windows like a rude intruder, dimmed by the sonnets of love, redeeming lost touch.