Dissection
What is love? Can the moon tell me
For all its life seducing hearts?
What seasons are there for it, that I
May wait its coming or pick it
Like wild flowers flooding the pastures of the eye.
You far off malignant star, do not lie
How did you from only gas make such dust
To tumble over waterfalls of feeling?
O God, you have a strange way with me
That only from words' slings of history
For slain doubt provide confidence
That I may trust you who I do not see
Working where living faith contests anxiety.
And so as to you
My hands turn from bright votaries
With panging heart to touch her form
And taste the sweet hibiscus of her lips
To chart my course by her driving star
And berth my body between her hips.
Yet though my eyes cannot see her beauty
To which no other beauty compares
And my ears drink not nectars of her melody
But upon her soul have fixed my stare
And read her heart like a poem here.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2009
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