It’s weekend again.
The daisies, I divined;
Are still far-flung.
The simmering flush is quelling.
Maybe I fancy wrong.
I surely fancied.
The iris-esque neck—
whose thirst was steeped in soul;
The dandelion-like ploy—
whose deceit one yearned for;
And the luminous eyes—
whose description entails novel expression.
While aeon upon aeon of torture;
Has had passed unto;
Without any recourse,
but to tarrying and extinction.
The flaring glamour,
and the gleaming reflection
in the seared eyes—
seems to fade.
Tumult has wreaked what was left;
tremor is the only reminisce,
and lively as ever,
of the vice caused,
by the manifestation.
But then for how long?
How long it will take
To be free
in the prison of passion?

Manifestation qua manifestation

is what to strive for;

It’s been a while she has not responded;

And like a loyal dog—

An obscene loyal dog,

I am waiting for her bones and flesh,

and rosy countenance,

And her locks to unravel the gordian knot

of my heart.

What can infatuation do?

Without caress, care, affection and expression.

Beauty is naught while shrouded;

Beauty requires radicality,

And radical is beautiful.

Dissolution requires a surface;

Unlike an icy pool for a diver.