Terminal Cool
The first time I saw her
I knew
she was the only one for me.
If I had cast a stone at
her sleek form
it would have sunk without
a ripple beneath her glassy surface.
Icons, man-gods, have died in
things such as she.
When I entered her she
hugged me in a warm embrace
and, body, mind and soul,
I was lost to her alone.
Lost to her smell
her look,
her feel.
her high-precision feminine mystique.
Instantaneously, in a rush of hot blood,
a pinpoint collision of clarity and chaos,
the knowledge of sex and death,
of life and love, possession and dispossession
shotgun blasted me with the truth.
I could buy her, yes,
but never own her.
Have her, but never
hold her.
She would be companion,
conveyance and coffin.
She would take me
anywhere I wanted to go.
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2005
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