Poets
write words
meant
to be spoken
to
one's self.

She sits in the
claustrophobic room
of her mind
dust ribbons blow
in the pale light
of
waxed candles
burning Jasmine
and
reminds her of the passing of time.

It is not long
before
she finds the hidden bottle
on the dusty cobwebbed shelf
with all of those desires
banging against the opaque glass
begging to be freed again
to run their course
of course she is afraid
as her trembling fingers
circle the cap
too late.

One touch
and
all those desires put aside
are free to roam
and fill the room
with
their moans
and
take control of what once was the freedom
that only lived in her mind's eye
she descends into her personal
heaven and hell
a pleasure center
alien to all she's been sold.

Dressed in black
in the casino
she puts it all on red.

She finds you there
she leads you out
to
the moon lite bay
where she steals your voice
and
leaves you
the wolf
howling at the moon.

When desires are freed
they pick up speed
she is, of course,
filled with remorse
so alien from her former course.

As her longings devour her
a tiny light of hope remains
and for the day
into the bottle tightly capped
her desires,  put away
once again remain.

She walks out of that
claustrophobic room
the candles burned down
only Jasmine smoke remains
the lingering scent of the bay
the echo of a wolf howling at the moon
lingers in colors of red and black

And to her husband
she briefly smiles
and
says
"Good morning"
once again
and
decides whether to go or stay.

I don't expect you to understand
Why I recoil when
You extend your arms and hands
Why I brace for impact
Within the trajectory of your touch
It is warm,
and I am cold.
It is wind,
and I am stone.