Freestyle Week # 7
Sex. Lust. Passion. Romance. Attraction. Like. Love. Respect. Trust. A swarming mass of hormonal tomfoolery. Too many drinks on an empty heart. Too much longing that has no name. Mistaken identities revealed by a cruel light coming through an opened window. Touch that turns to sour before it hits the skin. Dark paths in the middle of the woods in the middle of the night in the middle of an hour of fear. An empty house in the center of a field charred and marred by years of neglect. Too much time to think. Too little action.
Sex. Lust. Passion. Romance. Attraction. Like. Love. Respect. Trust. The same swarming mass of hormonal tomfoolery. Too many drinks on a full life. Mistaken identities that bring comfort in the cool light of the moon. Longing waits just outside the door but loses interest. Touch that soothes and sweeps away the cobwebs. Paths in the middle of a dark forest in the middle of night in the middle of an hour of hope. A house in the center of town painted anew. Not enough time to think. So much action.
posted by millay at 9:40 PM
1 Comments:
Can't argue with this and why would I want to? Might as well argue with my breathing.
Can't tell you how much I admire the inside out, positive/negative-image here, and the fearlessness before the reader's comprehension or incomprehension that all the best poems have to show.
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