Motes
Their forms have leaked into my mind;
women who have become
interchangeable body parts
in a chemical reaction I have with myself.
A female once undressed with a smile
seeps through closed lids,
another woman, once passed on a street
lived for years as a reoccurring fantasy;
she suckles an incubus,
born from a proliferant lust.
It returns to me now;
speaks as an imago and apprehension.
"Don’t worry father,
my crippled condition
can't be seen
behind your open eyes".
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2019
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