Cresting Waves & Stoking Flames in Poetry is the Window to the Soul...

There are cobwebs amongst my mind’s candelabra.

Flicker do the flames, providing scant comfort or warmth, and precious little light.

There are holes and deep hemorrhaging within this loser lover’s lament.

Wishing for someone to see what is so securely
hidden.

Funny thing those wishes. Tricky they can be. Tempting with favorable portents all you need is time, time to breathe.

Wishes so tricky, so desperate to believe, wishes become premonitions in the blink of an eye of the most wayward minds.

Oh, they believe.

The snap of a finger.

The end of a life’s ambition.

The tree stump is rotting from within.

If I told you that I think of you constantly, what would you see?

If I told you that you stain me in ways the ancient chalices of 4th century creativity could only compete.

You are what is missing. You are what is free. You are what is forever a whisper.

And a dream.

Without sleep.

I lie here in bed, night after night staring down sheep, and there you are always lurking, never too far away.

And as I go to reach.

The fates release.

I am lost.

I am free.

I am waiting.

I believe.

(Do I really?)

Stoke the flames. Tame the beast.

There’s nothing left in our bed when love never sleeps.

Enter credits, end scene.

© Brian Milici
November 21, 2022