Prodigree 2
O, elusive muse, mysterious and profound bruise,
you bewitch my soul, never to be found in the way of former use.
In your absence, I am left with bittersweet
caramello pain,
forever longing for your ephemeral archery reigns,
to stick your finger in and frost your tips, lips, hips.
With every plié, a heart skips a beat,
as feelings pirouette upon your rage
and bloodlust and cage.
Each soft tendu, a love story paged,
imbued with passion's fire, never to age.
But doth wrinkle rings around my heart like a chain,
loosely at first.
Then comes your tools of torture,
your sandblaster-twirls deoxyribonucleiy
amidst a dreamscape host given wage,
unfurls, serpentor,
hyour body, an instrument
for efficacies' grand gauge.
Through leaps and bounds, love's whispers
take shape, like an hourglass shaken
to be thrown to the Leviathan sea.
Given over to the carcinogenie of winds,
carrying own lamp of photosins seeding plans.
Your occulant lids, occupancy Inn
unfolding a tale stolen from Wonderland
with narrator mouth agape.
Like a hellmouth opened revealing iron rows
of oscillator teeth, of to then throe.
I know there is no escape, but surrenders
oasiatic retreat of blue snows.
From your sire nyour cover of cape.
Spellbinding me to the elements
like salt in the wound to taste and one to grow.
O, ballerina of love, your steps mesmerize,
evoking metamorphic fertiles,
lilypad touchstone monads of diodes and control pads and padded rooms of the matrixed "mad",
making us crystals of your rites,
constellate consulates of your Medusaic petrify,
metamorphed from pieces of coal-
fitted for pressure, heat of becoming
from your diamond bit drill.
But beneath the surface of t h i s-
frozen-heartless veneer,
y o u r c a r o m i n g d a r k n e s s
come to take me away-
lies a fire, a longing, a blaze yet unquenched
Ignited by the spark of hope,
a steal cable between your wench
the yearning for warmth
worked by passion match.
There eyes an unaided flicker,
Me, the Wicker-man
struggling against your vice grip,
your tangle of betrathed lisp.
I am tied by your poetry,
your visa drip, feminine W I C C A - Beltane slip
of slip.
A bridge too far,
of golden vistas burning,
now, there is no return.
For me, only to find your drowning sea or burn.
Copyright ©
Jude Herrick
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