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To the Bone

For Alan: Even if it did not win.

To the bone, flayed through flesh
and torn away
from the tendons and ligaments
of a tortured body.

Moans of regret,
mourning sensitivity,
singular loss
before the dawning
of renewed passion.

You have felt it before
and wish for it no more;
no more 
with the suffering, 
rejected and escaping,
and waiting patiently
for your destiny, 
writ in your sleepless
dreams.

It is the last time 
that your eyes seek to see
someone
passing through 
dusty corridors;
of echoing
shouts in the language
of fear,
until they dim,
without shedding your tears that have built up
but were dammed, 
unwept,
and the echoes fade
away.

Are you looking for passion?

Have you found it,
without pain
or yearning,
or precious loss,
easily,
with no struggle. 

Have you found it
unbound,
in the ashes
of the past conflagrations of emotions,
touching
the flesh and the bone.

Like a tattoo,
branding you.

Flayed to the bone,
in an agony of lack,
a torment of ill luck and
of suffering for your sensibility,
your empathy,
heartfelt sympathy,
breathlessly waiting for synchronicity.
They will appear.

They will be there forever
for you.

Let me in.
Let me be the one and only,
for my soothing touch can heal,
can be your salve
of newfound expectations.

Exulting, leaping up with delight,
as no more regrets;
as I touch
the flesh, and caress
away the duress,
stress will drain from your body,
your treasured, fevered,
fervent body of fearlessness.

Of hopes and dreams.
Of thoughts of passionate words unbounded.

Let me in and
my touch, my words, my song, will radiate
to the bone,
to the flesh, and the tendons, and the ligaments,
the Promethean body,
not tortured now,
but heart still beating,
giving its fire to us.

 

 

 

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