We side step desire

like the adroit dancers

we once were

light-footed, thin-ankled

defying gravity

in our keening

and still

that furnace

despite our neglect

consuming itself

continues to blaze

waking us at night

when the house is full of memories

and cold corners are no solace anymore

we roam halls bareheaded

fleet of foot

dancing in our sleep

to the urging wick of desire

for there is no remorse for people like us

we live only because we are struck

by an unsteady hand

igniting emotions like

all unsaid things

thrown on restless bonfire

will cast illumination and spectacle

among bare branches of old trees

if we could put words to

why we’d flung our very lives away

just for one night together

we’d be pulled back from the brink

the edge of everything

where all who are struck, reach

naked in their disregard for sanity

only hoping

in this feeling

lies the very thimble

of life itself

8 Replies to “Of life itself”

  1. Tolstoy got it right, caught the dead feeling of the thing, but also the restlessness of it, the searching;
    “Boredom: the desire for desires.”
    For desire truly is the engine, even when we busy our days with other, lesser, matters, in Morpheus’ realm Desire also ranges free.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.