Somehow, somewhere lies my agitated notion of you:
all that I could dream of!
My embellished experiences and some of *your recall*.
But mostly my avowed experience.
It, The Sunken Anchor un-phased,
is latched, parasitic to my dentate gyrus, thought and impulse.
It throbs with pain and spasms in frustration,
unable to calm itself down. Until sleep...
The road towards you sizzles -- but how do I know?
The image somehow bends. Dazzles.
As I roar through the turns
with little hesitation,
the bright aura spot that is you, guides me
as I leave the preferred road
and squint to see you in the shady forest
which now overrides my view; in I venture!
It's not too long before I find you:
The material that you accept you are made of, glistens, mesmerises;
it weighs on you where you stand
amongst the stumps of the clearing.
You're up to your ankles in half decayed logs and their saplings;
close-up they bear -- somehow -- familiar, chiseled-in, expressionless faces.
The culpable, self-determining axe shimmers, extended in your silvery hand.
I lean in but you squeal for the necessary oil.
Somehow I know, that it's attainable by Uncertain Promise,
only in the deep of the inhospitable, it is said to be found,
the uniform darkness of the remaining woods.
...And with a startle, I wake...
Mixed and giddy feelings
indicate that I'm slow to come to terms with the new day.
And that despite the lingerings,
I've stopped dreaming of My Sheer Lover.
We’re in bed bum-to-bum in a kind-of held kiss with each other
during the intermittent nights of popular labile affect.
We do face opposing, but this morning my mind is lain with her anguish
and it independently embellishes unrequited hope.
This happens even as one hand grasps and invites me,
and quickly, other relents, distances and is untrusting;
then, with a sweeping, sudden un-clutch,
it discourages.
I insight on some of these occasions -- I don't behold often now,
be surprised that somehow we regroup.
When does she love? Me. Herself?
But apparently the so-called Disgusting "L" Word buried in me
continues to renew, for her.
Seemingly, I don't control: It reveals itself between her cheeky pout,
and my liberating naïveté; and,
In the infinite slip of the roof.
To My Sheer Lover,
How do I begin to experience your experience.
Your agony?
Torment? Anguish?
Disappointment in/of me?
To understand my persecutions and avoid
the swipe of The Axeman.
Perceived betrayal continues to cross.
The exception to the Disenchantment Rule is that I do, love you.
But you tear through me disgracefully.
You formidable Axeman.
Relinquish more! Never.
There’s no better explanation of desire than me for you;
but consequently, enmity within shouts: "I think about trying to use my neck!
To lick the honey off the knife."
SNAP! Silence breaks. And I realise the truth.
I’m Your Love Always,
Fil.
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