I may beg

To cradle your tender *******,

But if your heart is withdrawn

And your hand is not mine,

Then this is naught

But lust

And such desire is strong

But lastly tastes of dust.

On down the road to Yeosu

Beside Pacific blue

We went with many merry songs

And sought something new

I found myself

At World’s threshold

Screaming out obscenity,

While

God quietly pushed passed me:

‘Pardon lad,
But these folk have need
Of food and rest
And more of less
Of all your proud
Opinion.’

So fools fall silent

At his word

And last,
there was Maria.

Her birth fell outside
the natural timeline of
all the rest of her family's affairs.

She may have called herself
'an accident.'

I could never make that connection.

She was the closest thing
to passion
I have ever known;
aside from childhood nights
beside an indifferent and well-fed fire.

She was terribly shy;

until she

tremulously

handed me (only one) of her keys.

[Alas
I wonder if it was ever
for the lock upon
her august heart.]

But she sang and she danced
and she ever approached me boldly.
She drew me out of myself
and brought me to wonder.

She even whispered with passion,

daring to share with me
her stately dreams.

And it goes without saying
(though I'll write it and lament)
she kissed with such passion.

She was above and beyond
any other girl I ever loved (...few)

Indeed,
I loved her.

I loved her,

almost enough.

You are as the fog to me

From a distance I can see

But as I near

You disappear

Till then I look far behind

To see that you have passed me by

I want to be spring rain,

Dancing gently on you.

I want to be winter snow,

Melting at your touch.