Lust, with warm and calloused hands,
You haunt my night and spare my day,
Not really what I had planned.

Dried leftover rice scattered round,
Half an hour until dawn.
Star-glaring, mighty muffled sound,
The river Styx unto a fawn.

Lips that burn with absence,
Absinthe out of reach.
Wind-up toys like naked crescents,
A melancholic speech.

What help is flowered language
With ennui on you on me?
Origami boxes, filled with sage -
What is groaning – if not poetry?