For Connar:**

I linger long for you
in the desolate wasteland
that is
my speechless silence.

Lusting for replies
to my love
that demands
and scorns.

Why would the rose
of fields so fertile
dare to touch
this trodden ground
worn,
and weathered?

Who am I
to claim
your ****** toes?

By: Devon Artis-White (4/28/13)