Soliloquy

The smell from the incense wafts in unchecked, unfiltered
As the windows are opened just about enough for the
Latches to be unhooked. The breeze from the last ebbs
And flows of spring’s perennial outcry; the membranes
Of one’s remembrances with no tenderness; the lament
Of the moon as another day asks for approval to arrive.

He unclasps the grip of his tongue even as the sweat
Drips off him in an unwavering embrace of stringent laxity.
As if he had been made of tar, he weeps the black river
Of himself; worried about the lack of room in the
Future he has devised for himself, he works himself into
A tizzy of unsought desire. The tears fall in silent delight.

If you like my work, consider visiting my website to get in touch with more of my writing. You can follow me on Twitter as well. Also, sign up for the newsletter to get regular updates coming your way. I would love to talk to you!